The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl by Issa Rae Page A

mother would style my tender-headed scalp, rushing to comb my kinks out with a fine-tooth as we got ready for school. The hate should have been directed at my scalp for being so sensitive, but in my eyes, my insubordinate hair was to blame. I’d witnessed the white girls in my class manage their hair with ease, the comb flowing through it, as though slicing through water. Even the Jewish girls, whose hair was “white-girl curly,” had Moses strands that seemed to part for the comb to pass. Why did my hair choose to be so difficult?
    It didn’t help that I had to sit on a West African woman’s floor for six to ten hours at a stretch as she braided my hair for the convenience of my mother (and, as I grew up, for my own convenience). This long length of time would be bearable if every damn West African woman that took me on as a client didn’t marathon the Lifetime Channel. If only the sensitivity and empathy these women shared with the overly dramatic characters on-screen translated to how they braided their client’s hair as they twisted and pulled every inch of my scalp with their rapid-fire fingers. Still, until I went to high school and found out how important “edges” are to the black female community, the two to three months of hassle-free hair almost seemed worth the time and pain.
    What love I did have for my hair stemmed from my elementary school—an environment that embraced difference. Being among an ethnically diverse group of friends was great for my self-esteem. I was celebrated for being different, for having superhero hair that defied gravity and recoiled with lightning-speed elasticity. My hair texture was the subject of awe, confusion, and probably envy. I loved it. The desire other kids had to touch my hair didn’t bother me at all. Instead, I felt special. Original. Sure, their hair was easier to deal with, but everybody and their mom had that type of hair. I was different. And in elementary school, different meant “better.” Part of my identity was tied to the uniqueness of my hair and I was proud of that.
    Until I moved to Los Angeles.
    Moving from a predominantly white elementary school where I had an abundance of like-minded friends to a predominantly black junior high in L.A. where I knew no one was already an eye-opening experience. But nobody prepared me for the “hair hierarchy.”
    If you don’t understand how it works, the hair hierarchy rates worth by length and texture of hair. The longer, silkier, and more European your hair, the higher your worth. The shorter, kinkier, and more African your hair? Kill thyself.
    I was taught this caste system by a trio of mean girls in middle school who found glee in taunting me. To them, my insistence on wearing my hair in an Afro puff made me an easy target. “Watch out for Jo-Issa,” one girl mused, “she might take something out of her nappy hair and throw it at you.” Middle school girls are cruel. Clever but cruel. Even now, almost twenty years later, I harbor resentment toward these girls, but I’m also impressed by how funny some of their quips were, as if they used middle school as their comedy lab. In fact, one girl is now an actress/comedian who actually reached out to me on Facebook a couple of years ago and asked to be a part of my web series, The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl , when it started to gain popularity. I looked at my computer, thinking, BITCH, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!?!?! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHTXLHHA! BOW DOWN TO THE NAPPY PRIESTESS, MUTHAF$#@&%!
    It wasn’t just that I suddenly found myself in the company of mean girls. It was also that it was the mid-nineties, and styles were changing. Long, flowing hair was in and weaves, though still the butt of many jokes in the black community, were rapidly becoming the norm. And as my luck would have it, braids with burnt ends, a hairstyle I frequently donned, were just going out of style. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the hate and ridicule I’d receive for