Monday, August 9, 2010

Would you like to own a pair of 'wing ear rings'?

You see the earrings on Badu, right?
You see the earrings on our model, Sophie (next post), right?
Yep, they're the same!
Want to win a pair?
Alright then, listen up.....
We need for you to post your story of transition below as a comment.....
In other words, what motivated/inspired you to become a natural?
What is your HairStory? 
How is your journey thus far?
We want to know.....
Inspire us and the earrings are yours!


  1. My skin complexion is what black folk generally refer to as “high yellow” and I was born with green eyes – the same green eyes that seem to skip every other generation of my family (on both sides). Every decade or so these green eyes appear – a cousin here, another aunt or uncle there. Needless to say, my sisters have had plenty of fun at my expense convincing me that I was adopted or otherwise switched at birth in some way that exempted my twin from the same origins.

    It’s not that I have nothing in common with my sisters. We all have the same kinky, wooly hair. Every Saturday, my mother transformed our kitchen into an ad hoc beauty parlor dedicated to "overcoming" our collective nappiness through the transformative power of “press and curl” technology. The thick aroma of bergamot oil and burnt hair would waft throughout our tiny Queens bungalow and hang in a grey, smoky fog. When Mommy got to the section of our hair just behind our temples, we dutifully held down our ears to avoid the searing black metal comb scalding our delicate cartilage and fry our thick, coiled strands into shiny, limp wisps that were promptly laid down into submission. Neat bangs with pigtails for the little girls, sophisticated upsweeps and pageboys for the big girls.

    Some of us were more successful than others in achieving this effect, I the least of all. And though I was the high yellow one with the strange eyes, I was also the one with the unruly, nappy hair, no longer than “that.” (And by “that,” I mean the kind of hair black folk describe with a wry smile and simultaneous snap of the finger, thus illustrating how short and nappy my kind of black is.)

    In fact, there's a specific name for black women like me. We're called "wasted yellow”: fair skin de-NIG-rated, as it were, by short nappy hair. (But thanks to my big sisters and a haughty attitude, I am impervious to ad hominem attack, so whatev!)

    Over the last 20 years, my hair journey has included braids, afros, dreads, and the occasional relaxer here and there. Colors have ranged from jet black to fiery red. Mostly, though, I've remained natural... I think my own personal hairstory is every bit as complicated as the collective history of African American women throughout the Diaspora and appropriately so.

    Today I braid human hair extensions into my own hair and though I'm well aware of the political economy of Hindi/Indian women "sacrificing" their gorgeous tresses for the sake of Western beauty supply profits, I feel like my practice is sustainable, as I'm now chemical free. Still, I'm looking forward to growing my own kinky hair out into a giant, nappy FRO very soon. Perhaps, I'll go for some color again and I enjoy envisioning all the styles I'll be able to wear: twists, pompadours, puffs, curls. Who knows? I might ever get a press and curl as one last hurrah before I loc it up again. Whatever the future holds, I know it will be an adventure and a celebration. But make no mistake, however I move into my next phase, I'll be sure to keep the Bushbroad sister posted!

  2. Lovin the site Ladies ~ I already own a pair of those Vanglorious Earwings by the King Jeweler, but in the near future, I may share my transition story from the view of an alumnus :) Sending love and light to us Sistas just finding it out, still figuring it out and to those passing along the knowledge they've found.

    Peace and Love ~ Harmony

  3. I went natural 3 and a half years ago and it is easily one of the best decisions I have EVER made. I had been going to Charles Grayson Salon and Spa across the street from South Park Mall for almost 3 years and I was seeing a stylist named Tia who charged $75-120 a visit. Every time I went to get a relaxer, I was stunning upon leaving, but just a day or two later I would notice that my hair was extremely stiff and brittle and I had massive breakage. I never once associated this with the stylist or the products, because my hair looked so shiny and healthy and flowing when I left the salon.

    When I came to see her she would always ask what I was doing and was I stressed and did I wear a scarf and was I using a lot of heat....etc. I was doing everything "right" but to no matter what I did, my hair kept breaking. I was literally shedding like a dog!

    Then a funny thing happened...I actually got pissed about the attitude the other associates had with me. I'd been going there routinely for almost 3 years getting my hair, waxes, massages, facials, etc. there and I'd still be asked by everyone...oh is this your first time here? ohh...Do I need to show you where to go? or acting otherwise condescending like I hadn't seen the same people there almost systematically every three weeks.

    Anywho...I went to a different stylist who informed me that my hair was so damaged that it had to be cut. The other stylist, Tia, was putting super duper bone strait perms in my hair when my texture is naturally a thick thick wavy (4a). Doing this made my hair pop where the different textures met as my hair grew. I felt like an idiot and I felt that I had been duped. I vowed to never again put harsh chemicals in my hair.

    I did the big chop, although it was unceremonious as my hair was so damaged. When it got long enough I wore my fair share of braids and weaves. I NEVER thought I'd wear fake hair in my hair...It always seemed weird to me, but when the shoe was on my foot (or the hair was in my head, rather) you deal with it. In hindsight, I wouldn't have done the extensions and things as much as I did.

    As you go through this journey you learn SO much about products, techniques, stylists, and yourself. If I knew what I did when I began, I would have had no reason to ever hide my hair throughout my transition or my grow out phase. That's why I am in love with Bush Broads and sites that promote natural hair.

    So to sum allll of this up, I hope that you can gain some courage from my experience. Also, shed everything you think you know about this world and startle yourself by allowing yourself to be just who you are. I will say this, though. You have to be ready! As you can see from my story, I had the perfect storm of events, information, and mental progression to where it would have seemed more ludicrous NOT to go natural. If you don't feel ready, you are not. But best of luck to you and feel free to contact me if you have any questions!

  4. I'd always been sort of a hair misfit due to my hair's weird wiry texture. Nothing ever quite looked "right", or if it did it didn't look "right" for long. In retrospect I guess my hair is just as much of an accidental rebel as I am. "We" like to be left to our own devices, it's when the magic happens! ;)

    As a result my natural story is not one born of an intense need to get in touch with my "blacker side". I went au naturale quite by accident in my senior year of highschool in 1994. This whole wet and wavy look came in to vogue. Hell bent on achieving the look I stopped perming with an intent to put a texturizure in. Imagine my surprise when I figured out that my hair was wet and wavy when I left it the hell alone! I decided that I would not perm my hair unless absolutely necessary. Since 1994 I haven't found it "necessary".

  5. My mom has had a ceasar cut for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, I used to encourage her to get designs cut into her hair like the boys at school, and sometimes she'd come home with something fancy up around her sideburns and slay me with her coolness. I thought she was so fly and brave for always being the only woman in the barber shop, where I couldn't even accompany her because I didn't need to be hearing all that talk.

    Since my mom was low on hair, I was her Barbie doll. She never knew how to do my hair (or her own, which is why she cut it in the first place) but she'd commission my grandmother to recreate Rudy Huxtable's hairstyles every morning. She'd sit me down and brush my hair in the evenings. Even getting my hair pressed every two weeks was a luxurious ritual. I loved the routine. I *loved* my hair. It was long, natural, thick and fabulous... it would never hold a press very long but the giant wave of fluffy cotton that would bound from my ribbons enthralled me. I had a giant basket full of barrettes and clacky-clack balls and clips and every hair doodad you could imagine, in every color, to match every outfit.

    In sixth grade, I went on a field trip alone for the first time. My grandma's first question was "Who's gonna do her hair? She doesn't know what to do! The press won't hold that long!" So I had to get a relaxer. Looking back, nothing about that decision made sense. My mom balked, but my grandma wasn't gonna have me walking around New York City looking like who shot john, so to the salon I went. And I hated the routine. But I kinda liked my hair. It was just as soft and almost as thick, but I could run my fingers through it, and it could get wet! I dreamed of showering without a cap on and maybe even swimming at the beach, pleasures that had been denied me for so long. Little did I know that I still couldn't pull that mess. Over the years, my hair wasn't so thick anymore, and the retouches never did stop burning, and one day I got really sick of picking scabs out of my scalp.

    When I was 16, I decided I'd had enough. I wanted out. I didn't know any other girls with naturals, but my mom was fly so why wouldn't I be? I started to become one with my new growth, loving the curls that I never really had a chance to notice even as a kid because they were always pressed out before they got too far. I tried to grow it out with straw sets until my stylist pumped my chair up high and said "your feet aren't touching the floor until your hair does. You need to let it go." I went to school the next day with a barely-there crop.

    9 years later, I've grown it, cut it, grown it again, loc'ed it twice (and combed them out after a year both times because I couldn't stand to cut it all off) and tried in vain several times to get the haircut Vanessa Huxtable had in the 6th episode of season 5. Along the way, both my best friends, my aunt, and both my grandmas, yes even that grandma, have all gone natural too. All they needed was a social guinea pig, and I was happy to be that if it meant finally being able to relax from relaxing. My venture into the world of perms was relatively short-lived, I guess, but it was enough to tell me I NEVER want to deal with that again.

    I have to respectfully disagree with India... I actually *am* my hair. I always have been intimately connected with this big 'ol kinky curly ball of fluff, and whatever I'm going through... the 'fro shows it. I wear my heart on my scalp. I still have a giant basket of clips and pins and doodads, my mom still brushes my hair sometimes, and every morning, I get up and take a long, hot shower... without a cap on. And I love that mess.