Shrinkage

If you’re thinking based on title this post is about loss or theft of goods in retail, you’re about to be enlightened.

Black girls know what shrinkage is. I’d lay odds that nearly every black girl who reads this either rolls her eyes, shakes her head or makes some audible acknowledgement for the word. For those of you who aren’t in the know, shrinkage as applied to black women is the infernal frustration of our curly, kinky, or coily hair and its tendency  to shrink up and hide our length and growth. You have to pull the hair to see it’s full length and glory. That or blow dry or straighten it. Natural haired girls know the struggle a bit more than processed (relaxed or straightened) girls. Shrinkage makes it look like we have this tight, short, but still fly Afro, but when you stretch it out, all of a sudden it’s shoulder or back length hair. A visual example of Black Girl Magic.

I know all of this may seem random, but here’s what happened-or to quote Richard Pryor by way of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air –

” So what had happened was” :

I put spring twits in my hair. Basically they are individual extensions similar to braids, except they are just two strand twists. They are called spring twits because they are bouncy and spring back to shape when you stretch them. Two weeks ago I tried a style called butterfly locs. I am always slightly on guard and holding my breath a bit when I change my hair. I go from straight to curly to braids to headwraps and back frequently. Every time I change length or style I hold my breath the first couple of days. Not because I give damn or penny what people think, but because some people (predominantly white women, no offense), can’t just think thoughts about black women’s hair changes. They gotta think the thoughts, muse out loud about the changes, and feel this magnetic compulsion to TOUCH. WITHOUT DAMN-IT-ALL-TO-HELL-PERMISSION!! Not to mention doing so right now in the middle of a Panny-D-Covid-emic when we are supposed to be social distancing! Lawd, stand by. Let me take a breath.

Whoosah. Like I was saying. They gotta touch. I don’t know what that’s about, and I don’t have the energy or word capacity on this post to try to unpack it. While I realize it can be interesting or fascinating to see hair change length or texture or color overnight it’s exhausting to defend or explain it multiple times every time I change it. It just comes down to this, I get low key anxiety when I change my hair because my 40 some-odd years have taught me someone is going to try to touch it. Without considering my space bubble, with no consideration of my sense of self & my having ownership over my body, and without considering why the fuck they feel ENTITLED to do it in the first place. I’m not a pet. Frankly that kind of anxiety over time, low key or not, is mild trauma. Think calling it trauma is dramatic? Look up common reactions to trauma. It’s how I feel when I see someone eyeing my hair and lifting a hand to touch. High alert, feeling stressed/anxious, becoming upset and emotional.

You can probably guess someone touched my hair and triggered me. Twice in the last three weeks. Mildly triggered me. Mildly because this time it wasn’t a stranger in a store. It wasn’t me minding my business in line for food and all of a sudden feeling someone’s grubby ass hands in my hair; asking me if it’s mine or how I did it.

“Is that yarn?”

“What king of material is that?”

“Could you do mine like that?” (Don’t get me started on cultural appropriation!)

Simultaneously touching while talking so I don’t have time to duck and dodge. Who even does that? WHY do that? This time I knew them. Two separate very nice ladies. I genuinely like them both. It still triggered me. They don’t mean any harm, they just doesn’t know better. At least they asked. I knew it was coming. I could tell by the way they kept looking at it during conversation. I had already taken a breath and decided to suck it up and not make a big deal of it and let them touch if asked. Asking for permission and having some kind of interpersonal relationship is how I minimize the unease, and get through it as quickly as I can. They don’t mean any harm. They don’t. Mostly.

This wasn’t my first rodeo. I’ve had 20 minute conversations trying to explain how I “fixed” my hair. Trying to justify why I don’t like people touching my hair. I haven’t liked people touching my hair since I was little. Starting with pain while having it combed when I was little to a girl in school trying to cut off a whole pigtail in 4th grade. Yet if you ask and I let you, you haven’t taken anything from me, or invaded my personal space as much as I’ve let you in right? At least that’s the justification in my head.

That’s shrinkage. Shrinkage in an emotional sense. That’s me shrinking myself and my emotions for someone else’s comfort. I’m allowing someone to touch my crown and glory for the sake of politeness and THEIR comfort while being in an uncomfortable space. Black women have storied & complicated relationships with their hair, but universally, it’s part of our identity. Being polite about the impoliteness of having our hair touched by strangers is a tiny example of the 10,000 ways black women dim their shine and shrink their spirit to indulge the whim of other (white) folks. There are constant small adjustments. It’s why we feel anxiety about little things. Pressured by small annoyances. Shrinkage looks like saying no thank you politely (again) the 4th time the lady following you around the store asks if she can help you find something. It sounds like speaking clearly and enunciating softly so you don’t sound aggressive and your point gets heard. It looks like my friend quieting her natural exuberance and voice for fear of sounding ghetto whatever the hell that means. Why is black girl joy always too loud or too ghetto? Shrinkage is filling out a job application using a middle name instead of a first birth name because human resources won’t hire Sha’Quita, but they’ll at least interview Lynn. Therein lies the triggered anxiety. It’s not just the hair. It’s the diminishment of being a little less than we are so we seem humble and approachable.

I’m tired of it to be honest. With minimal disrespect and moderate frustration directed at my white sisters, I’m done dimming my shine. The only shrinkage I want to see in myself is when I wash my hair and my coils take over. I’m not a pet. Don’t touch my hair. Please and thank you.

You matter. Be the light.