My Granddaughter’s Hair

While I never played a significant role in the lives of my daughters’ hair, in the end I could pull off a tidy ponytail and, in a pinch, some pretty neat pigtails. I could patiently unsnag a knot without anyone calling Child Services.

My granddaughter’s hair, on the other hand, is in a whole other league. Malea has her mother’s Celtic fineness plus her father’s Jamaican/Bajan curls. Left to its own devices, it springs up from her head like the lead in Eraserhead. It’s beautiful hair that other girls will be jealous of. She’ll be able to do things with this hair.

I, however, cannot.

On Boxing Day, we picked up Malea from her other grandparents’ house, where Nana had clearly spent time on her hair. It had been divided by a longitude front to back and two latitudes ear to ear. Each continent of hair had been gathered into a knot. There’s probably a hair name for this – a bunion, a clumpette, a dallywhimple – but I have no idea. Each hairboodle (?) was tied off with plastic hair elastics, wrapped around and around and around. She was as cute as a button.

Aside: doesn’t this hurt? Doesn’t all that tightly knotted hair put a strain on the scalp? Her mother says no, and, at any rate, Malea didn’t complain.

She did complain, however, when it was later time to take them out. Three of us hovered and tugged at the elastics, which had sort of fused together from tension. Her aunt quipped: “How many white people does it take to…?”

In the end, I was the one who got in there. I was always the go-to parent for splinters; I could cut baby fingernails with nerves of steel. As Malea protested and squirmed, I stretched each elastic just enough to (carefully) slide a scissors point underneath to cut them. But there was still some snagging. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said. “Almost done. You’re being so good.”

Eventually, we got out all the elastics. Malea’s hair was wild, standing up in all directions, each continent of hair now an erupting volcano.

Bath time. I also do baths.

In the tub, I rinsed and relaxed Malea’s stressed-out hair. It settled and shone in waves on her head. After washing, I found one of the many special hair products her mother has for her, this one a conditioner you just leave in. Afterwards, she put on her hair bonnet for sleeping. In the morning, there would be another lotion, a special brush. I’ve learned all about these things from her mother, who in turn is lucky to have Nana to guide her about caring for Black hair and all that it means for Black identity.

I can learn to care for Malea’s hair, but I will never know what it is to have Black hair. And I will certainly never know what it is to be Black. We buy books and dolls that reflect who she is (I also bought her a Nova Scotia tartan kilt, because that’s who she is as well), but growing up as a biracial kid will likely have challenges that I can never know. I have little to offer. I’m barely comfortable even broaching it here.

Then again, could I ever really prepare my own children? It took me a long time to appreciate, for instance, how different it is for my daughters, how the simple act of walking alone could be fraught with anxiety. In the end, for all my children, my daughters and my son, we could do only so much to prepare them for heartbreak, for unfairness, for cruelty, for the world.

All we can do, as parents and grandparents, is give them love, guidance and a sense of principles and then hope they turn into decent people. So far, so good.

On New Year’s Eve, I had Malea to myself. As we prepared to head out to a late afternoon gathering, I bunched the hair on either side of her head and tied it off into two uneven… shoobops? The part down the middle was less a longitude than a ragged fault line. The back was a war zone. It was imperfect but it was cute. I was proud of myself.

Later, we took it all out, changed into our PJs, curled up on the sofa, ate popcorn for supper and watched “Mr. Bean.” These things I know.

Just Poppy and Malea, chilling with popcorn.