She Touched My Hair

It was just Monday – the first day back after Thanksgiving break. I took my seat at the front table of my training class. For several hours my back was to the larger audience, and I fixated on the presenters.

After lunch, a woman approached me from the rear and with both of her hands grabbed all of my locs, bringing them towards her face. 

“These are so pretty,” she said. “Are they colored like this for the holiday?”

Seconds felt like hours. Both my life and hers flashed before my eyes. Here I was, a complete stranger to this woman. She obviously had become fascinated by my locs while sitting behind me. Maybe it’s the colors – red, green and yellow, and the fact that my mane has far more variety than hers.

Her sense of privilege told her that because she was intrigued – she was allowed to investigate.

She was white, maybe 60 years old and I’m safely assuming she thought that because she was complimenting my hair – she could touch it. It didn’t matter if she’d just had her fingers in her butthole or in her dog’s mouth; she thought that my hair was hers to touch.

In that moment, I took a deep breath and turned around with my elbow extended towards her chin. In my mind I told her many things: “Don’t touch my f**king hair,” “What the hell are you doing?” “Are you crazy?”  

All of the words that I thought were flowing from my mouth, souring a professional setting and perhaps ending the training early were simply in my head. Instead I just looked at her. I stared at her with anger and resentment. I saw blood. The audacity of this simpleton to think my hair is fair game because it’s interesting.

She kept talking.

I kept staring, nostrils flaring and teeth gritting.

Eventually she shut her trap and backed away.

Today is Wednesday and I’m still beating myself up for not beating the privilege out of that heffa. Unfortunately this is not the first time I’ve experienced such harassment. A simple retwist or some added color seems to attract those with uninventive hair. It’s almost like I become a science project.

Over the last few days I’ve wondered several things, in between replaying the scene and wishing I‘d cursed her out in a way she’d never forget. I wonder if the police would’ve been called had I countered by pulling her 18 strands of struggle blonde. If I pushed her away, would I be in the wrong? Perhaps moments after she backed away, she summed me up to be nothing more than another “angry black woman.”

This woman was spared my wrath on Monday. Maybe it was the grace of God or my fear of separation from my paycheck. I absolutely pity the next fool to try me.