I am a four-year-old child. One of my earliest memories is the sensation of my mother running her fingers through my curls, the rhythmic pull, pressure, and release as she plaited my hair, the aroma of almond and peppermint hair oil on her hands, and the feeling of connection at the core as she cradled my head in her palms.
Upon reflection, I realize that I have misrecalled the memory. It was not my mother braiding my hair, but my aunt. This seems appropriate, as the act of braiding often embodies a sense of motherly care, of being adorned and cherished. When I envision braids, I not only think of my mother but also her sisters, and their mother and her sisters, and the extensive lineage of Black women who preceded them for millennia. I contemplate braiding my own daughter’s hair, extending this intricate web of kinship.
Braids symbolize love and nurturing, communion and connection. They signify tribal identity, a rite of passage, an embrace of Black culture, a form of protest, a celebration of heritage, an act of defiance, a roadmap to liberation, a source of prejudice, an inherent entitlement, a covert language, a place of solace, a proud heritage. Hence, when I think of braids, I envision not only mothers, daughters, and sisters but also the extensive network of relationships that transcend the bounds of maternal and sisterly ties. I ponder all the ways in which braids intertwine with the narrative of my existence.
Braids encapsulate a passage of time.
At the age of 16, I embark on my initial visit to the salon where I will have my hair braided for the subsequent decade. A baby, the owner’s daughter, is stationed in a bouncy seat before me, just a few months old, clad in a onesie adorned with ducks and llamas, attempting to fit her fist into her mouth throughout the appointment. With each subsequent visit, I witness her growth, from a toddler donning twists with beads to a preschooler flaunting an Afro puff and braided bangs, and eventually a fourth-grader sporting box braids en route to summer camp. Observing her maturation feels akin to viewing a time-lapse video where an infant swiftly transforms into a teenager. Despite feeling unchanged at 26 compared to 16, I acknowledge the evolution, for she has evolved.
Braids harbor amusing anecdotes.
At eight years old, in an era predating Amazon and when Barbie lacked a belly button and was available in 35 skin tones, my mother scoured the ends of the earth to procure a Black baby doll for me. While I nourish, attire, and tend to her as if she were my own, her hair texture diverges from mine. With strands as sleek as a bone and smooth as seal skin, my attempts to braid her hair, akin to my mother braiding mine, prove futile as the strands refuse to hold. Undeterred, I resort to a quintessential ‘90s solution: I style her hair akin to “The Rachel.” This episode reflects the era’s dearth of representation across toys and media but also highlights how the layered haircut complements her facial features.
Braids serve as a gateway to a familiar realm.
At 22, I depart from home, not merely relocating but venturing to a locale diametrically opposite to all I know. While the distinct culture, language, and pace of life allure me, they also evoke a sense of isolation. Amidst the familiar yet foreign surroundings, seeking solace in the known amidst the unknown is akin to the comfort derived from entering a hair braiding salon in Abu Dhabi identical to those in New York and Madrid. The identical Nigerian soap operas blaring at a deafening volume, the black containers of edge tamer neatly arranged on glass shelves, the sun-bleached hair magazine cutouts adorning the walls, and the uniform scene: stylists hunched over clients positioned over sinks. Amidst these women, far from home, we unite not over a Big Mac and fries but through Marley twists and box braids.
Braids function as a signal.
At 26, during a ski excursion, I find myself disoriented. Buffeted by the wind, grappling with a weathered map, a stranger taps my shoulder (or rather, my ski pole.) Urging me to follow, they guide me back to the lodge. Unbeknownst to them, I get swept into their ski weekend—a large group of Black skiers on an annual trip who mistake me for one of their own. Despite my attempts to clarify, they embrace me, making space around the fireplace. Thanks to my braids, the sole visible aspect beneath my helmet and facemask, I become integrated into their group.
Braids offer a form of release.
At 33, amid the pandemic’s peak, grappling with the specter of mortality and acclimating to a transformed reality, the ache of missing individuals intensifies. Seeking solace, I reach out to the hair braider, a plea for assistance. The yearning for the unique intimacy fostered by those tending to my various needs—be it painting my nails, cleaning my teeth, or untangling my hair—propels me to her doorstep. Despite the uncertainty looming over us, she tends to my weary locks, rekindling this ritual. The session serves as a relief, a salve, reinstating a semblance of normalcy and offering a glimpse into what once was and what may be again.
Braids reflect a mirror.
At 20, 25, and 35, a constant in the life of a Black woman adorned with braids in America is the inevitability of being mistaken for every other Black woman sporting braids in the vicinity. Conversely, every fellow Black woman with braids will encounter the same misconception. This peculiar solidarity manifests each time I inquire about a woman’s braided hairstyle on the street or when they reciprocate the query. The beautiful symmetry of recognizing oneself in others and witnessing others see themselves in you fosters an unusual kinship.
In summertime at the age of five, adorned with cornrows, a resilient style ideal for the season, impervious to sand, salt, and melted popsicles. For generations, individuals from West Africa and the Horn of Africa have fashioned their hair into three-strand braids, named as such by their American and Caribbean descendants due to their resemblance to the rows of corn in the fields they cultivated. At 15, as my mother braids my hair, we exchange secrets, reminiscing about her own adolescence at 15, delineating the similarities and disparities. She slips a $20 bill, “mad money,” into my bra for unforeseen circumstances. During slave uprisings, Black women concealed rice and grains within their braids for sustenance during their flight to freedom. At 25, weary of conforming to professional standards, I painstakingly straighten my hair for work until the day I decide to embrace my natural hair. In the 1960s, amid the Black Power movement, an increasing number of Black women embraced natural and braided hairstyles, rebuffing Eurocentric beauty norms. My existence in braids epitomizes my existence.