Don't Touch My Hair

I had just sat for more than seven hours getting my hair woven into the coolest-looking 18-inch braids and was so ready to show them off to the world. I looked at myself in the mirror with a smile of approval for the work that the hairstylist had just done. I paid her 200 South African rand in return and walked out of the salon with a pep in my step.

Before I could even make it to the taxi rank, a popular stop for public transport, I came across a white woman who gave me an awkward smile as I approached her. I gave her the same smile back and it seemed I had given her the green light to say what was on her mind.

"Oh, what beautiful hair. Let me feel it," she said. She invited herself onto my fresh braids, tugging at them for her pleasure with her mouth agasp before I said, "Thank you, but they really hurt. I just got them done."

"Sorry! They are just so beautiful," she said. I could not help feeling more violated than appreciated. There were not enough "wow's" or "oooh's" and "aaah's" that could make me feel the slightest bit less touched.

For many years to come I would experience white South Africans who had such great curiosity for my hair that they would lean in and pat my head of hair or marvel at a hairstyle as if I had just been the first to adorn it. Despite having many older relatives who had previously had the same or similar hair styles, the constant interest in my hair by white people almost moved me to look into this.

Years down the line I would encounter the same peculiar inquisitiveness in corporate South Africa. I had just graduated from high school and scored an internship for a few months before I started college in the United States. Once again, I entrusted my go-to braided hairstyle to make me look ready and professional for my first day as a real adult; my first day at work in an office.

As my manager walked me around the office introducing me to some of my new colleagues, I received a few compliments from white folks on my hair. I had had these braids done more than I could count in my lifetime; had seen many black South African women with the same styles in different variations; and had even asked my hairstylist how long she had been offering her services for these same braids. But for some reason, in many parts of the country, I still felt like an anomaly. It really felt like I was walking into places with my head first.

My Black Hair in Apartheid

My grandmother later shared that she had felt the same rage during Apartheid with the "pencil test."

"Nathi bebesthinta kanjena ngeApartheid," she said. (They used to touch our hair just like that during Apartheid.)

Race classification certificate used during Apartehid, South Africa (Picture by: sa.gov)

This was yet another instance that black people were being seen as a spectacle, exhibit or costume. However, this time it was a part of a legal system created in the eyes of our white supremacist society.

Chelsea Johnson, a sociologist, whose research spans from black America to South Africa, says that under apartheid the government could legislate you from one racial category to another.

"One of the ways the government used to determine whether you could access the rights that were only afforded to white South Africans at the time was through the pencil test," said Johnson.

A South African identity book known as a "dompass" with information on racial category. It was required to be carried at all times by non-white citizens. (Picture by: sa.gov)

According to the sociologist, the pencil test was used to distinguish whites from blacks and coloureds. In the pencil test, a pencil is pushed through a person's hair. How easily it comes out determines whether the person has "passed" or "failed" the test; with the failure being associated with afro-textured, kinky hair.

The pencil test was made possible by the Population Registration Act of 1950 by the Apartheid government. The Act required that "each inhabitant of South Africa be classified and registered in accordance with his or her racial characteristics" as part of the system of apartheid.

"It determined what jobs you could get, where you could go to school, where you could live, what hospitals you had access to, if you went to prison, what prison you would go to. It meant a lot," said Chelsea Johnson.

It became clear to me why black women in South Africa were also singing along to Solange's song, "Don't Touch My Hair" during its release.

The song became an anthem for black women in the United States and for quite some time I sang along with my own frustrations in mind, with no idea of the extent of the discomfort and anger of many women in my own country.

My Black Hair in the United States

In June 2012, I arrived in the United States. Less than a month later I was in Boston when I felt a weight on my head while shopping. I looked back and a Caucasian woman greeted me with a big smile and fingers still holding onto my braids.

"Not this again," I thought to myself as I immediately began searching in my arsenal of excuses to use in this situation.

I looked at her and laughed nervously. I said hello even though it seemed as if she had sped past that stage with her invasiveness. I asked her if she liked them, a question I routinely ask in this situation. She eagerly said yes and told me she had always wanted to touch braids. I was the lucky recipient of her experiment. After sharing a lengthy story about when she had first seen them, where she was from and the black women she had worked with, she introduced herself.

These lyrics by Solange rang true to so many and unraveled a slew of aggravations that I felt when trying to accommodate uniformed non-black people. Hair is used as a metaphor for the entire essence on this song and is the perfect symbol, as black women's hair is one thing that has always been policed throughout history and into the present in both South Africa and the U.S.

Johnson, the sociologist, says after "Don't Touch My Hair" became popular many black women considered it a new declaration of self-ownership.

"Many black Americans came here literally as property, as slaves; and as descendants of slaves with no citizenship rights, no property rights," Johnson said. "So claiming ownership over your space and over your body in a very literal sense means a lot."

My Black Hair in Wakanda

After the release of "Black Panther," many black women marveled at the natural hair designs that each of the movie's characters wore with great pride. In this movie, I saw both, African and American history collide in the celebration of ethnic textures and natural hair histories. I spoke to Camille Friend, Black Panther's hair wizard; the Department Head Hairstylist, and she explained the inspiration for some of the hairstyles.

Image of Angela Basset and Lupita Nyong'o (Courtesy of Marvel)

Can you explain your process when it came to the creation of the hairstyles featured in Black Panther?

My main thing when I do movies is really about creating characters that are going to be somatic, that will be dramatic, and that will last forever. In five years you can look back at "Black Panther" and still think, "oh, this was a cool movie." That's where I start. It starts with what I call the trinity- hair, makeup and wardrobe. We come together to create the looks.

My research started with traditional Africa- looking at the continent, the tribes of Africa, and the hair textures, the textiles, the landscapes. I then used my artistic eye to cherry pick all that I really liked and would work within the movie.

The second part that I used is where we are now- the natural hair explosion of African- American people. I looked at the Afropunk- It's a total acceptance of natural hair and freedom of expression.

I also always asked Ryan more about the character. What is the backstory of this character? Who are they, really? What made them this person? Where do they come from? What are they passionate about? This makes me think about this character and what would connect them to their hair.

When I look at hairstyles such as the bantu-knots on Lupita N'yongo, I wonder how you came to that particular style for her?

Image of Connie Chiume (Courtesy of Marvel)

That was something that we came to organically. We actually call them "Wakanda knots" because they are not quite the same as bantu-knots. A bantu-knot sits higher on the head; it's very spacey. We created a bantu-knot, but something that would look good, not only on camera, but on her head shape. It's the process of taking the hair and twisting it upon itself- twisting it down really flat, like a cinnamon roll. It's a Wakanda Knot!

That was something that we came to organically. We actually call them "Wakanda knots" because they are not quite same as bantu-knots. A bantu-know sits higher on the head; it's very spacey. We created a bantu-knot, but something that would good, not only on camera, but on her head shape. It's the process of taking the hair and twisting it upon itself- twisting it down really flat, like a cinnamon roll. It's a Wakanda Knot!

Angela Basset had the grey/silver dreadlocks. How did you make those?

That's a decision that Ryan and I made. His mother has the most beautiful locks, 20-inch beautiful locks. I knew that I wanted to do something really special for Angela, she's an iconic actress. I designed the hair for her and once I showed her she said she was game.

That wig was quite a process. The dreadlocks are handmade; they are rolled, with about four different colors that I have added. We had originally made over a hundred pieces. Once the dreadlocks are made, we take them to the wig maker, who makes the base of the wig. She makes that from a mold of Angela's head.

South African actress, Connie Chiume, wears the wig with the red clay known to many African tribes.

That was hard! We knew we wanted to do it but had no idea how we were going to do it. We were in research and development for a long time on that one. Mud is used to create this hairstyle but we can't put mud in the movie. It won't last. We ended up trying to imitate it by using a braided wig- we used braids and we wrapped it, we painted it. Trust me, this wig was probably about 300 hours of manpower. I am not kidding.

I think the best part about it really was Connie. I mean, I could cry. She wore it with so much pride. She wore it like a black queen. She made people resonate with it and I think that comes from the inside.

What were your expectations for the movie? Do you feel like they were met?

I never go into a movie with expectations of it being the biggest movie ever. I just go into it with to give honor to God through the work. Doing "Black Panther" has been a gift.