Not only is that just in general a very uncool thing to do, it really pisses me off that I am afforded less courtesy than a golden retriever. This hair touching phenomenon is not new for me. In fact I have had issues with this on multiple continents, especially now that I have natural hair. The ‘fro attracts a lot of interest. My first experience was in the seventh grade. I had just gotten my hair braided and was riding the city bus in Madison, WI. Some anonymous white lady came rushing up to me. “Oh I just love your hair,” she had cooed, and as if to accentuate her point grab a large handful and stroked them. I was floored. Here was this grown ass stranger who felt completely entitled to violate my personal space bubble. I was also embarrassed. I had no idea what to say or do, so I just pulled away and mumbled thanks. THANKS. Thanks for completely objectifying me, for making me feel like an animal. Thanks for finding me interesting enough to want to pet. Thanks for making me feel gross. As I have gotten older, I developed better reflexes.
Now I can usually see it coming and step back or throw an arm block depending on the situation. I am also much less diplomatic in my approach to space bubble violators. The severity of my response varies depending on the level of the offense. For example, if it’s a child, I might gently explain to them that it’s impolite to go around trying to touch strangers, but adults beware. You might get the diatribe. There might be a Sistah Moment, as is the case with the brotha I encountered at the club. I must admit, I didn’t see it coming. I mean he’s a black man. He has to have a mother, maybe a sister or some cousins. I’m sure he’s spent some time with black women before in his life (though this is WA, so I might be wrong). So when this random dude came running up to me talking ‘bout…”Sister I love your hair,” I really did not expect him to reach out and put his hands all in it. My expression cued him to his misstep.
He was already backing away as I was gearing up for the cuss out. As with many experiences, I have had to write about it to purge my demons, so I will leave you with a poem from God, Hair, Love, and America:
The Afro-petting Zoo Is Closed: A Public Service Announcement in 3 Parts
1 Freedom of speech is all cool, but sometimes my hair be talkin’ shit Not when she’s twisted or braided down and wrapped in silk, but sometimes, when freshly washed and oiled smelling like coconut and ocean all soft and luscious billowing up and out wild and free, she gets an attitude, starts talking to strangers. She be like “Psst. Hey. I look soft don’t I?” She says “ Touch me, I’m like perfumed velvet, You know you wanna touch me.” * Now this is important: Don’t listen to her.*
2 The following is a dramatization based on several unfortunately true events. It was Saturday night at the club. She was blond and sparkly Shellacked into white go-go boots and a pink spandex mini-dress that was made to hold much less of her, but she didn’t care. It was her birthday! She was pink and special And the tequila was free! As she tottered out into the street, Loosely supported by two equally drunk friends, Her eyes fixed on me, A vision of chocolate goodness, The tremendous fluff of my ‘fro So soft, so downy, black cotton candy Cried out to her Like a giant puffy siren Singing her towards Her own destruction “Touch me. I’m just as plush as that rabbit you had in kindergarten, Pet me.” It all happened quickly. Startling the crowd of cool kids smoking by the door, She let out a squeal of elation “EEEEEEEEEEEEEE” She shed her friends, like a beer stained coat and came careening towards me, the fat in her dress set into motion like two warring sock puppets tarped in pink, A mass of bubble gum jello jiggling, JIGGLING, Her two hands like the metal grabby claws in those glass bins filled with toys “EEEEEEEEEEEEEE” Coming closer, closer… *SLAP* The slap reverberated through the street. Smoking ceased. The bouncer eyed us warily, The only sound was the throb of diva house spilling out from the club. A smile was turned upside down. Pink sparkly lips quavered: “It’s my birthday,” she whimpered “You didn’t have to…” OH… but I did! Don’t let this happen to you.
3 It’s big, it’s invisible, And it surrounds me constantly I like to call it: “My personal space bubble.” In the words of singer, song writer India Arie “I am not my hair.” All views expressed by my hair are not necessarily my views. Any invitations issued by my hair are subject to interpretation and possible recrimination, So to avoid potential litigation and / or possible bitch slapping, treat me like I am the VIP lounge complete with velvet ropes and burley men named Thor forming a barrier between you and my hair. If you’re not on the list, Don’t touch me. Thank you for your time and attention.
Reagan Jackson is a writer, artist, YA fiction aficionado, afro-punk, international educator, and community organizer based in Seattle, WA. You can find her most Tuesdays at the Seattle Poetry Slam or maybe just being nerdy at her favorite bookstores.
