The Kwanzaa Collection: The Kuumba Cosmetologist
A brand new Kwanzaa tale on the hair incident that defined a generation.
Long before I began my career as a professional wypipologist, I was already a pioneer in the hair-doing industry.
“Doing hair” is a totally different enterprise than barbering or hairstylist. While women who go swimming on their wedding night get their hair done in salons with stylists who use brushes and handheld blow-dryers, people who “do hair” only work in kitchens, usually no further than three feet from the stove. In fact, when it comes to Black women’s hair, the rules of English don’t even apply. The verbs are conjugated in an entirely different way.
For instance, if Sally wants her hair did, she will find someone who “do hair.” After Sally gets her hair did, she might tell the person who do hair: “You did that.” If Sally really looks good, a stranger might even compliment Sally’s hairdo by saying: “Do it, Sally!”
Anyway, I do hair.
Growing up as an artistic latchkey kid with three sisters, a penchant for science experiments and a mom who didn’t assign chores by gender, my training began with greasing my grandmother’s scalp (again, white people, these are ancient African-American rituals). After a probationary period of twisting my sisters’ hair into ponytails before church services, I eventually earned my straightening-comb license.
You have never felt power until you have been imbued with straightening-comb duties for three tenderheaded sisters. On straightening-comb day (which was typically on a Friday), I was the king of the house. Everyone knew that if I left that straightening comb on the stove for too long, everything could go sideways and they could possibly end up with a patch missing or—worst of all—one of those top-of-the-ear burns that every little Black girl has had at one time or another. (Side note: I wonder if a teacher ever accused a Black mother of child abuse when they noticed those 12th-degree burns on a child’s ear?)
I don’t wanna brag, but I was one of the greatest straightening combers of my time. I’m not talking about that electrified nonsense, either. I did my sisters’ hair like God and Madam C.J. Walker intended—at a gas stove. I didn’t need a paper towel to see if the comb was hot enough. My proprietary hair-heat algorithm combined time, ambient temperature and hair texture to determine the exact thermal properties needed to uncoil a 4C nap within a tenth of a degree.
