Dear Natural Hair Nazis, You’re More Annoying than You Think

Yes, I said it. I’m actually going there, and you and your perfectly melded comb can’t stop me. I won’t be deterred by the legion of recruits that surround this domineering mission – which is to shame anyone that chooses to adhere to their preferred devices.

eddie

The natural hair movement is a revolution that I abhor beyond measure. Every blog dedicated to the enhancement of black women has a section regulated to the mandatory adulation of our coils, and instead of faithful acknowledgment, I immediately recoil in anger and resentment. Those episodes take me back to a time. A galaxy far, far, away, when the inhabitants were strictly unaware of the power they possessed. They spent their days hiding behind potions that were designed to enable them the means to cover up the one feature that could fuck up their game.

From Hair Rules to Shea Moisture, the roster of requirements envelops the senses and dismantles the participants, who are too helpless and desperate to see through the bullshit.

Soak the hair in moisturizers strong enough to drain the strands from the otherwise dry and lifeless state assigned to our kind. Overpriced hair product are the key to rejuvenation.

Thank the Lord we embody a time when you can casually click through a plethora of blogs and get the answer to all your prayers. Not too long ago, Ebony magazine showcased a comprehensive detail that stacked up the top 17 natural hair bloggers in the universe. Okay, I’m being dramatically sarcastic, but you get it. Who the fuck are these women?

They are the instigators of my impenetrable ulcer. I read what they have to say and I take in the demonstrative videos and blatantly evoking images – and to be honest and shake my head at the implemented bullshit on display. And for those of you who subscribe to the scripted mayhem – you’re an even bigger headache. Eating up the digestive fodder that is specifically subscribed for those of you who can’t fathom the reality of being you. Just you.

Without the mental assistance that should only be rendered to the deplorably unsound and the population who are haplessly devoted to the musings of the blessed orator who is reaping the monetary recognition of your ignorance and laziness – Curly Nikki.

I should have constructed my interface back in 1999 when I joyfully released myself from the bondage of annoyingly improvised hair appointments and decided to keep the coins by taking on the task of styling my own tresses. Imagine that? The idea of taking on the responsibility of being your very own stylist – scary!

It actually wasn’t that scary for me. I know for those of you who are relentlessly reliant on the schedules and habits of your chosen gurus it is unimaginable, but believe it or not I survived the minefield of self-doubt and brutal criticism like a pro. A right of passage that newbies such as yourselves can never gallantly claim because you latched onto a misinterpreted phenomenon that dictates when you wash your hair and whether or not your co-washing skills match are up to par. Pity.

Do you ever stop to think how ludicrous it is to be enslaved by the very establishment you swore never to pledge allegiance to? You cower under the need to achieve the smoothest, shiniest curl, and you will stop at nothing to scour the tethers of the Internet to procure your most holier than thou version of the freestyle Afro. And if it collapses within 24 hours, you have the comment threads to hold you up until another natural hair starlet comes to the rescue.

Natural hair Nazis. The over-entitled breed, who think they can overrun the work that me and so many others cemented over a decade ago when they were still under the tutelage of their misguided female posse. You know, you remember the mornings spent untangling your crown glory as they wailed in disapproval. The afternoon dedicated to figuring a proper routine to save you from the work they would have to put in making you look “decent”. The nights you slept accordingly to save your newly altered state in an effort to protect your ticket to humanity.

See, I did all the work for you. I bore the brunt of all the insults that were aimed to demean my need to comfortably rock my natural state without y’all looking at me as if I had lost my capable mind. But no, I wasn’t allowed to transition with dignity and pride because back in 1999, it wasn’t about owning your texture and rocking steady, it was more about suffocating your edges with product that lived up to the promise of not giving away the fact that you weren’t lucky enough to be bequeathed with the blood line needed to keep your hair woes at bay.

I am an African babe, so I’m not entitled to any mixtures or leftover solvents that could garner me the ability to dive into a pool and emerge “Cover Girl” ready. I gotta work to keep my tendrils healthy and happy – and figured that out naturally, without the input of astute tutors. I’m pissed that you needed an abundance of testimonies from common folk to figure out what was already so painfully obvious.

Because of you, I have to endure the presence of natural hair specialists who are really not that remarkable at all, they just hit the jackpot of timing. You gave them permission to execute the obvious and regulate you to the soppy crew of “anything goes” as long as you make me relieve the fantasy of being able to master of the art of ordering my strands to bow at my command. Damn! You couldn’t come up with you own strategy? Y’all are pathetic.

So naturalistas, I’m not impressed that you finally uncovered the goldmine sprouting from your roots since your humble existence. It’s kind of fucked up that black women need to initiate a movement and validated over-hyped natural hair gurus to convince you that your tresses are in working order. How could you have been so clueless to the realization? It’s weird and embarrassing but yet not thoroughly incomprehensible. I get it. We are disciples of the currents of change, and very few of us dare to remain in the remote island of confidence, self-esteem, and foresight.

I’m proud to say that I was immune to the tentacles of the bloggers who reached out but missed their target. I don’t need to research whether or not washing my hair every two weeks is the secure maintenance or if wearing extensions violates the code of conduct.

I know what’s up and the natural hair squad with your maps and itineraries can’t hold me down. I’ve been on this grind – so hit me up if you have questions and concerns.

Seriously, though – I could use the cash…