During a conversation with a Black man a few weeks ago, in the presence of another Black woman, it happened. Again. I felt the need to defend my hair length. As soon as the exchange ended, I was haunted. Disturbed by the incessant occurrence of having to exculpate my existence, my beauty. Before I could properly process what I was doing and stop myself, I had JUSTIFIED MY HAIR LENGTH. Justified. As if there was something wrong or ugly about it, as if I was less attractive because my hair length was modest, even average, for a Black girl. A Black man had informed me, proudly and perhaps innocently, in front of another woman with longer hair that his hair had been longer than mine “at one point.”
We’ve all heard or said The Defenses before. “My hair used to be really long BUT.” “That perm my mom forced me to get broke my hair off, girl.” “I told the hairdresser to just cut my split ends and she cut a few inches off. It’ll grow back.” “I did the big chop.” We’ve all cringed at the “bald head scallywag” jokes on the middle school playground, subconsciously brushed down gelled up baby hairs to ensure ourselves that we had edges, dodge that jab. Why is brushing down gelled up baby hairs even a thing? Doesn’t this act implicitly ingrain the message that natural edges are unruly or unsightly?

Then, the fact that this man prefaced the hair length comparison statement with “no disrespect but…” had clearly, immediately and innately activated the need for me to defend myself, defend my hair. It made the statement inherently disrespectful and suggested a hair inferiority. “Well, I’m not offended because I chopped all of my hair off. I did the big chop.” I blurted out as I recovered and attempted to hide my chagrin under the guise of enlightening my peers with indisputable facts. I might as well have said, “So you see, your hair was only longer than mine by default. You are not better than me, your hair does not grow longer or faster. I started over. So there. My hair is freaking awesome dude BE HUMBLE!”

A similar microaggression was facilitated by a white female coworker a few months prior. In the same breath of her complimenting how full, cute, and suiting my afro puff debut at work was, she denigrated another sister, A Black female acquaintance of hers that she couldn’t, for the life of her, decode why the woman had opted to wear a ponytail that was “this” (she demonstrated for dramatic effect with her finger and thumb barely separated) long.

That Sunday evening after The Defense, I moisturized and cornrowed my curls in my bedroom whilst getting lost and mesmerized by the gentle crooning of Jill Scott playing in the background of my makeshift hair salon. I was preparing for my next protective style while giving Queen Latifah in Set It Off vibes with my straight-back, tightly and neatly plaited locks. In my meditative thug life glory, I forced myself to decompress from the week’s weariness and anticipated the new beginning of the next week. I had survived yet another conventional beauty standard microaggression and had lived to defend myself another day. I wondered, “When?”

When exactly are we going to stop scrutinizing a fish by its ability to climb a tree? When we’re made of the same star essence and universe rain from which our hair, like trees and flowers, sprout. Spiral upward to greet the sun’s rays. Voluminous. Luminous. Copious. Billowing. Created to rise, magnificently blossom, and be spatially excellent. Outsmarting and gently defeating gravity in unique testament to an especially magic divinity. An enchanting intensity that somehow shines through even in a brush cut.
Our hair is meant to curl, coil, jump, and leap! Stretch and shout for joy. Vibrate, an antenna majestically intertwined with the galaxy. Humidity forecasts strong springiness with a slight chance of shrinkage and a high chance of slayage. Encounters with heat engender silkiness. Water, softly rippling waves. Air, flourishing kinks proudly riding the breeze. Requiring nourishment like the soil. A mirror of the Earth. Black Girl Radiance is not defined by hair length: Our magic is far too big and resilient for that.
Lacrisha is a healing, growth, and wellness enthusiast who likes to spend her spare time participating in sophisticated ratchet hippie thug scholar things like lamenting adulting and reading books. She is a proud alumna of both the illustrious Howard University and North Carolina Central University.

by Yvette Tetteh

“You know, I can just tell you are a true African Queen.”

I draw my bottle of beer closer towards me, let out a quiet sigh, take a sip, and decide to take the bait along with it.

by Stacia L. Brown for The New Republic

When I cut my hair last summer, I sheared 12 inches of chemically straightened hair from the coarser curls closest to my scalp. I had only an inch of hair in its natural state; at the time, I felt free.

by Jenn M. Jackson

Few things personify white privilege more than the erasure of Black women’s bodies from the public sphere. Evidence of this fact can be found in the reactions to Serena Williams’ recent Wimbledon title and the faux outrage at Amandla Stenberg’s commentary on Kylie Jenner’s culturally appropriated cornrows. In the face of these obstacles, an important question we must ask ourselves is: Where does the Black woman’s body belong?

Serena Williams – arguably the best tennis player of all time – has been insulted, diminished, erased, and disrespected since she started playing the sport professionally nearly two decades ago. A recent New York Times article describing her body as “muscular” and questioning her womanhood is just a glimpse into the insults she has had to endure over the years. From racism and sexism to transmisogyny and flat out hatred, she has had to experience a myriad of criticisms just for existing in professional tennis while Black and female. The road to loving herself wasn’t easy. But, Williams learned to do it despite the hate she continually faced from white critics, coaches, commentators, and fans.

For Williams, her body belongs precisely where she has been all along: on the tennis court. While efforts to erase and exclude her from that predominantly white space prevail, she has been crystal clear that she both deserves and has earned the privilege to be there no matter how threatening it is to systems of white superiority.

Similarly, 16-year-old Hunger Games actress Amandla Stenberg was recently called a “jackhole” by TV host Andy Cohen after she criticized 17-year-old Kylie Jenner (younger half-sister of Kim Kardashian) for posting an image of herself on Instagram wearing cornrows. Cohen later apologized. Stenberg’s words, while offensive to many whites who believe this issue is only about “hairstyles,” were incredibly accurate and timely.






Stenberg later clarified her comments in an Instagram post. In particular, she noted that “While white women are praised for altering their bodies, plumping their lips, and tanning their skin, black women are shamed although the same features exist on them naturally.”

bigger than you or me. discussions are healthy. ignorance is not. words by me

A photo posted by amandla (@amandlastenberg) on Jul 12, 2015 at 9:02pm PDT

Stenberg, though young, is not wrong in her claims. For the mainstream media to pretend as though her concerns were being expressed this way for the first time is misleading and reductive. Stenberg has been consistent in her critique of appropriation of “Black culture” and the exclusion of Black women from Eurocentric beauty standards. If anything, Stenberg has summarized precisely the exclusionary actions of white supremacy that Serena Williams herself experiences daily – a phenomenon Dr. Moya Bailey calls “misogynoir.”

No, this isn’t a new issue. I recently covered this subject at length in reference to the Rachel Dolezal media debacle. The mainstream media’s obsession with Dolezal was fueled by both a hatred for Black women and an insatiable desire to present white women as inherently pure and idyllic.

Even more importantly, I have thoroughly explained how white women have long invested in the demonization of Black women and families. By making themselves the point of reference for womanhood, they have contributed to a framework which excludes Black women’s bodies, marking them as “other.” This double standard is so pervasive that it has been internalized and projected onto little Black girls. Therefore, these two recent events involving Williams and Stenberg should not surprise anyone who has been paying at least a little bit of attention.

As it stands, modern beauty standards rely on almost unattainable ideals but still rest upon the exploitation and appropriation of Black women’s bodies. But why?

The answer is simple: Just as whiteness is defined by the existence of blackness, white women’s beauty can’t exist without Black women’s (purported) lack thereof. This isn’t to say that Black women’s beauty is reliant on the White Gaze. Rather, I am noting that many white people, at least partially, define themselves by their deviation from Black people.

This cruel fact isn’t true just when considering beauty standards. In Williams’ case, it also articulates itself in professional athleticism. For Beyoncé and Rihanna, it manifests itself in the music industry. And, for Viola Davis, Shonda Rhimes, and Ava DuVernay, it emerges in the television and movie fields. In all cases, from the vantage point of white supremacy, Black women’s bodies are to be emulated rather than empowered, appropriated rather than appreciated, and excluded rather than extolled.

Thus, in a system predicated on the “otherness” of blackness, Black women’s bodies are meant to exist on the margins. But, in this era of #BlackLivesMatter, many Black women have been challenging this status quo of oppression. Rather than accepting marginalization and exploitation, these women have carved out spaces for themselves that were once designated for whiteness alone.

Frankly, Black women’s bodies belong wherever we choose to exist. It is a function of White supremacy to try and convince us otherwise. However, as we continue to make space and dismantle those existing narratives and structures which seek to erase us, we must be prepared to contend with the blowback we are certain to experience.

In this way, the critiques of Williams and Stenberg can be best understood not as barriers to our full existence, but as stepping stones that allow us to come closer to realizing what being “free” truly feels like.

Photo: New York Daily News

Jenn M. Jackson is a regular contributor at For Harriet. She is also the Editor-in-Chief and co-founder of Water Cooler Convos, a politics, news, and culture webmag for bourgie Black nerds. For more about her, tweet her at @JennMJack or visit her website at jennmjackson.com.

by Dajae Gilliard

Yes, someone’s talking about colorism again. Why? Because it’s still an issue.

The Teeny Weeny Afro (TWA) seems to be the stepchild, twice removed, in the natural hair family. When scrolling down my Pintrest and Tumblr feeds, and reading the latest natural hair articles, I see box braids, buzzed cuts, faux locs, twists, curly afros, and others, but rarely TWAs. When they do make an appearance, they are usually with loose curls—not the 4b/4c texture I’m working with.

Last week, when I took out my faux locs and saw my awkward, 2-inch TWA, I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the sight.

It was too long to leave the house without running a comb through it, but too short to pull back in a ponytail. I knew my hair wouldn’t be long, because I was growing it out from a five-year buzzed cut—but I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.
Like a many naturalistas, I wanted the coveted Tracy Ellis-Ross hair, but got the Viola Davis, post-wig fro. Even in our self-loving natural hair community, not all textures and lengths receive equal praise.

I looked at my hair, which was neither long, nor loosely curled, and thought about how the Blue Ivy hair police might say I had that slave girl, chicken head, “is it a boy or a girl?” type look.

Except, no other person saying those things at the moment— just me.

Though I claim to be a black feminist culture critic and life-long naturalista who will hashtag #StayWoke until the day I die, even I have to admit I do not always love my naps.

When I wore a buzzed haircut, I would break out the clippers at the first site of a wayward curl. I liked the shaved look, not the nappy one.
It wasn’t the texture that bothered me. I loved the versatility of my hair. But it had to be manipulated and styled. I’ve worn twists, faux locs, and curly afros—but they had to be flexy-rod curly. I wasn’t okay with my not-styled, comb-and-go TWA.

So after taking down my faux locs, I immediately went wig shopping. But I think my natural hair genies were not pleased with the way I viewed my hair, so I didn’t find any wigs I liked.

I then thought about compensating to balance the awkwardness with what I deemed beautiful: I could wear makeup (even though it wasn’t a regular practice of mine), I could wear prettier clothing, I could wear my glasses that gave me a softer appearance.

Without much confidence in those ideas, I opened up my laptop and found this meme on my Facebook timeline:

That internet ignorance reminded me to cut the crap and wake up from the anti-black beauty standards I’d been trying to meet.
I responded to the post, “🚫. And still bombAF.”

I’d been natural my whole life and have been a buzzed cut diva for the last five years. I should know better than anyone that short nappy hair is beautiful.

My natural hair journey has taken me from a buzzed cut to faux locs, and now, to a TWA. And I’m learning to love it at every shape, length, and stage.

Photo Credit: Shutterstock

Shae Collins is a freelance writer and blogger at Awomynsworth.com, a blog that aims a black feminist lens at all things involving race, gender, and pop culture. Follow her on Twitter @awomynsworth.

I wear my hair in its natural state. It is full, glorious, and the embodiment of my character. My hair is full of kinks that grow upward and out toward the sky in a way mainstream beauty standards cannot appreciate. I love my hair, but I also know that my luscious locks are not valued by most.

by Kamaya Thompson


I have the best friends anyone could ask for. We live in different states, but talk everyday like we live under the same roof all thanks to our group text messages. We talk about everything in our group texts: relationships, jobs, family… you name it! We especially love sharing photos with each other—from selfies, to the funniest Instagram meme. It’s one of the small ways we constantly keep in touch.

by Kamiiya Williams

I was in college when Lil Wayne’s song “Every Girl” first came out. I admit, it was one of my favorite songs to play on my iPhone while I worked out in the gym and it got me going at the house parties. However, the first line of his verse always stood out to me: “I like a long-haired, thick redbone,” as it described what many men thought to be the "ideal" woman.

Last night, I tuned into the much anticipated Light Girls documentary on OWN, which intended to be a follow-up to 2011’s Dark Girls, which examined how colorism has affected Black women of all shades.

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by Tanya Allen

by Stephanie Gates

Booty, booty, booty, booty, booty everywhere—and I’m over it. I am sick of big booty White girls. And no, I am not a hater. I have a bodacious backside of my own. But what gives this big booty girl a wedgie the size of an extra-small thong is the fascination with the protruding posteriors of White girls as if it’s the best thing since peanut butter found jelly. Big booties ain’t new! Big booty Black girls have been holding it down since the beginning of time.