I love my hair lazily. I run my fingers through it, ignoring the demarcation of finger and hair and scalp. I forget it ’til it is brought to the fore by another.
When the length and curl of it were praised, I came to learn that hair could signify beauty. When, in Catholic school, students were made to keep their hair no longer than one-third of an index figure, I saw that hair could signal subjugation, and consequently rebellion. When I could finally grow it, I was already lost to the delight of snipping it to the root.
Barbers have been important fixtures in my life. They make me look good, hair salons tend to be vibrant spaces of conversation (everyone knows the quartier’s scandals are recap’d in hair salons) and the silence is truly meditative (hey, you like what you like).
I’ve gotten halfway decent at cutting my hair even if trips to the barber remain ideal. In new places, barbershops are the handshake through which I take the measure of my hosts.
In Northampton. black hair is still being imagined. This lack of imagination is not without cost. It’s not just that you likely won’t get a good do or haircut as a black person in Northampton, it’s also that a stylist might have the audacity to say, “We don’t really specialize in ethnic hair.” Note, they’re not saying they won’t cut your hair (because that would be unconstitutional, right?), just that they’ll fuck it up and *shrug*.
Agatoni 