Pressing the Black Out; Hot Combs, Fear and Culture (#30DayRBHC)

I was conditioned to sit in that chair, stiff as a doll, while a metal comb was racked across my scalp so that my savage curls could be transformed into straight, flowing hair. A reminder that I was not beautiful as I was; only beautiful when I was able to look like something I was not. And when it was time to wash out the whiteness that came at the end of a smoking metal comb, I would dread the hours of combing through my unruly blackness, blow drying, and hot combing it again. A process that would take hours, but would begin to signify my conditioned perception of beauty until I became 36 years old and began to really question who I was underneath the perm, endless amount of hours, and burned flesh. [Read more…]

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