Honestly, I’ve become desensitized to the sound of a crying child. As moms, we are experts at decoding tears: hunger, discomfort, fear, and the occasional attempt at manipulation. But when we hear those “REAL TEARS,” we drop everything. Those loud, wailing sobs that come from the diaphragm can pierce through the most hardened parent. I should know, my seven-year-old, Quinn, cries like that on a weekly basis. Before you call child protective services, you should know that it’s because of the horrible experience women of color have to endure again and again called the “detangling” process.
Quinn screams bloody murder every time. Her brothers, white with straight hair, are always genuinely concerned and confused. "Why does it have to hurt her?" they ask. I explain that curly and textured hair, like Quinn's, tangles easily and varies in texture across the scalp. The front is softer, the crown dry and rough, the back thin with tight coils. Quinn's hair is a marvel, but maintaining it requires time, patience, and care.
I've tried preparing her for wash days by informing her the day before, which leads to unnecessary worry. But if I wait to give her a last-minute heads-up, it feels like betrayal. Despite my best intentions, detangling sessions are fraught with uncontrollable weeping and yelling. While I try to remain calm, her incessant wailing triggers my nervous system in ways I never thought possible. The internal work I have to do to appear at peace on the outside is Nobel Peace Prize-worthy. I’ve found ways to try and make the ritual better, though. I let her watch her favorite shows as a distraction tool. I buy the most expensive conditioners, and I have all of the wide-toothed combs, Denman brushes, and detanglers in America. I’ve read all the blogs and followed all of the tips and steps.
So, before you get excited, this isn't a how-to guide; it's a rallying cry for mothers and daughters (and some sons) of color who silently endure this ongoing ordeal disguised as a mundane part of the hygiene routine. Wet the hair, condition the hair, and gently comb from the bottom up -sounds simple enough. Yet Quinn cries inconsolably, partly due to the suffering and partly because she sees no way out of this. Ever.
Wash day feels like a splinter that quickly becomes a sword. It’s how bad it feels and how long it takes. It is physical pain, but it’s also emotional. It disrupts the little things and the big things. For example, summertime is a breeze for most people. For us, it's strategic military-level planning of how to schedule a detangle session and work our vacations around that. Quinn loves to swim. But if we get invited to the pool or beach right after wash day, she can’t go. I’d forego her happiness before subjecting her to that type of torture twice in one week. No thanks. It gets in the way of so many things. Styling it hurts, braiding it hurts, and even that is a day-long commitment that we push through because we have to. Wash, tears, detangle, tears, straighten, tears, braid “ow too tight”, more tears, children’s Tylenol for the headache, until finally it’s time for bed.
How can I expect her to embrace and love her hair when it causes her so much anguish? I bought all of the books, showed her pictures of beautiful curly afros, and explained the cultural significance of her hair. So, when she says she wishes for straight hair, I immediately turn into the frantic, toxic positivity police:
“What do you mean?! People wish they had your hair!
“You always get compliments everywhere we go.”
“Your hair is a representation of who you are and where you come from.”
And then she shuts me down with one response: "Why doesn't it hurt people with straight hair?"
I really don’t know, Quinn. I don’t have the answers. I hate not having the answers, especially when it comes to easing her pain.
Reflecting on my own experiences, I remember similar struggles normalized in Dominican culture— “El que quiere pelo bonito, aguanta jalones,” a mantra that engrains “beauty requires pain” in our brains. I remember going to the Dominican hair salon to straighten my hair, and as soon as the stylist heard me moan and groan, she’d say “Come on, I didn’t do anything to you. That doesn’t hurt!” Gaslighting at its best. But I refuse to gaslight my daughter. I validate her feelings because that's all I can do in those moments of distress. I don't want Quinn to associate her hair with anything but pride and beauty.
I don’t like how Quinn feels on wash day, I don’t like that the agony becomes a reason for her to dislike anything about herself (even if temporarily). I thought back to my experience, and the one thing that made it better for me was…
Learning how to do it myself.
I've discovered a small solace in teaching and allowing Quinn to handle the front while I tackle the back—perhaps it's psychological, but it seems to hurt more when other people do it. Her hands are also gentler than mine. It’s been a pretty effective strategy so far. Thank God, because I’d also suggested we both shave our heads. I’m glad she turned that one down.
I adore Quinn's hair. Every curl tells a story, and every knot symbolizes resilience against conformity. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown," they say! Well, our heads are heavy with the twists and turns that define us and carry us forward, echoing generations past to remind us of who we’ve always been.
I hope she learns to love it too.
Maybe, just maybe, this is divine preparation for the challenges ahead, a lesson in appreciating art that requires effort. Perhaps we can strike a balance by reminding them of the exquisite beauty of their hair, while affirming their struggle. Again, this isn't a guide; it's a letter of solidarity to those whose children face pain at the hands of a comb. To all the curly, coily, unruly heads out there, I say—Giiiiirl, us too! Stay strong and keep on keeping on.
I am so glad I ran across this!!!!! I just braided my 5yo son's hair for the first time 3 days ago. He is African American and Puerto Rican and his hair texture is more his Puerto Rican side than mine. I asked him if I could do it, he said yes. As I'm braiding he starts complaining of the braids being too tight. I redo some but it didn't always work. He then cries out "Mom, are you trying to hurt me for real?" I put his face in my hands, look him in his eyes and assure him I would NEVER purposely hurt him. I tell him since it's his first time he isn't used to how braids work and since it's my first time with his texture, Im learning too. I apologize and he accepts it. Yes, it hurt here and there as we went along but now he is shaking his head around, looking in all the mirrors and loving being told how beautiful his hair is. Keep going ❤️