Eva Walker on learning to love her natural Black hair, and what that's meant to her as a mother. by Eva Walker Eva Walker is a writer, a KEXP DJ, one-half of the rock duo the Black Tones, and mom to her baby girl, Hendrix. Every month she writes a letter to Hendrix to share wisdom learned from her experiences—and her mistakes. Dear Hendrix, You might be shocked to find out (and don’t read this until you’re 18) but there were shampoo commercials in the ’90s and 2000s where women orgasmed while lathering their scalps. It was a big marketing point—and worked for obvious reasons—but it isn’t what made me buy the shampoo. In between the moans, what I saw in those commercials and all the others like them was the thing that I wanted: long, straight, silky hair. These commercials all started the same. The model had “bed head”—oh no!—and she would begin rubbing the shampoo throughout her hair, smoothing her scalp and then letting the water wash it all out. Boom! Her hair was perfect—straight, silky and shiny. Was this shampoo the 9th wonder of the freaking world? So, I did what most people tired of their tangled, dry, and non-reflective hair would do: I went and bought the shampoo. After I went home, I dipped my head under the sink, drenched it in water, added the stuff, scrubbing and scrubbing thinking, Wow, it’s working! Eagerly, like a kid on Christmas morning, I rinsed it out, awaiting the obvious results. But when I took the towel away… it was still my hair. Hair that, as far as I knew, was nappy, stringy, dry… and just wrong.  Of course, the mistake must have been mine. And there was only one thing to do: try again! When I rinsed out the shampoo again, I stared in the mirror convinced I was commercial-ready. But quickly I saw my stringy, dry, brittle locs. What the actual fuck? Should I call the BBB, write a letter to congress? This was bullshit!  Well, Hendrix, little did I consider that the product and ad was strictly marketed for people with that kind of hair and that hair only: straight, shiny and long. Or, in the words of Thomas Jefferson, “flowing” and “elegant.” The marketers were only concerned with diversity in hair color, not hair grower. Their hair, I would later find out, was called type-1 hair, based on the at times-controversial chart created by Andre Walker, a hair stylist for the stars, most notably Oprah Winfrey. Mine? Mine in that moment was just tangled. Nappy (I’m not talking sleep). Wrong. From childhood to dating age, I looked to straighten my hair. People even thought it was naturally that way (LOL). To get that texture, I didn’t chemically alter it—meaning, I didn’t use relaxers. Today, I’m thankful I was always told to avoid those. My weapon of choice was a hot comb and later an iron straightener.   For a while, I used to get very tight braids from a small West African hair shop in Seattle, but for some reason, that particular stylist also felt the need to not just braid the hair, but to add my scalp and brain to the style. It was done so tight and so regularly, that I experienced traction alopecia. (That’s when your hair falls out due to styling techniques.) Traction alopecia is unfortunately common amongst Black women because of practices like braids, weaves and anything that pulls the hair too tightly (don’t ever let anyone tell you that you are “tender-headed.” If it hurts, it hurts). My hair didn’t start to get healthy until I saw a stylist your grandmother brought me too when I was about 12 years old. She helped me with a regular routine every two weeks and taught me the importance of moisturizing and limited manipulation. Still, though, I wore my hair straight because in my mind, that’s what I looked like—that was me.  Fast-forward to 2020, though, and the COVID-19 pandemic. During lockdown, getting to a stylist was nearly impossible (I even had to cut your Finnish father’s stubbornly-straight hair) so ultimately I decided to try weaves and wigs because it was easier. I spent thousands! There went your college fund—just kidding (kind of). But you know me now as someone who has natural, curly hair. What was the turning point? It began with Seattle’s biggest import: the rain. I’d always felt like a prisoner of my hair. I wanted to be able to just stand in the rain and let my hair get wet and not worry about the texture change or ruining a style. So, I did what I do best. I went down a YouTube wormhole of natural hair videos to see what other women were doing with theirs. The first big find was one by Breanna Rutter, called, “Natural Hair Types Explained.” She taught me that Black hair is diverse in texture and thickness and density. So, thus began my quest of video after video of natural hair influencers. (My favorite was the self proclaimed “resident weirdo” Starpuppy.) I learned a lot about hair that year. There are differences in people’s coarseness, thickness, density and what’s called porosity, or how receptive your hair is to absorbing moisture. All of these things make our hair different even within the same racial community. I had a realization. My hair is my hair. It’s not just Black hair. It’s Eva’s hair and I need to identify what Eva’s hair needs. This information changed my life! It was the first time in my life I saw my hair as curly and coily and not nappy. At that moment, I could have orgasmed. YouTube, my hair savior, was invented on Valentine’s Day 2005, but 138 years before that, a Black woman named Madam C. J. Walker (no relation) was born. She would become the first female self-made millionaire in America from her cosmetics and hair care products designed specifically for Black hair. She built a strong foundation for understanding each strand’s unique needs. But her success was followed by generations of repression, pushing natural Black hair into the shadows. Which means in the 60s and 70s, people like your great-grandparents were told they had “unprofessional” textures. And many like me never had the chance to learn how to take care of our hair in its natural state. But Black people know how to rebel. And that led to gloriously-picked afros! And eventually, thousands of YouTube videos celebrating each individual texture! Power to the people! Now it was time for me to execute everything I’d researched. To do so, I probably doled out something close to the GDP of Tacoma on moisturizing shampoos, deep conditioners, leave-in conditioners, curl creams, oils (coconut, almond, jojoba), gels and mousses. For the first time in my life, I didn’t see my hair as nappy, stringy, dry or wrong. I saw bouncing, shiny, lovable curls and coils that felt like freedom. My hair was never wrong.     When I began rocking my first natural look as a grown-ass adult, I went to West Seattle, to the Skylark Café. I imagined Roger Klotz (from the Doug cartoon) pointing and laughing at me. This was not something I was used to. This was a new look, a new reality, a new me. That’s fucking terrifying. My band was about to play a live-stream show (still COVID times) and the club owner’s wife was there. She was a white woman and she started to compliment my look—I know what you’re thinking, cringe alert, right? But quite the opposite. I told her, “I decided to embrace this style. Little black girls need to see more women wearing natural afro textured hair.” She then replied, “Little white girls need to see it too!” That knocked me on my shapely ass. She was right. I’d seen so much white hair—in commercials and films and office buildings—and now people should see mine. If there was a director on hand, I could have shot my own shampoo commercial right there.  Today, I’ve never felt freer and like myself more than I do now just because of how I wear my hair. I love every curl and coil that springs from my scalp. And I can walk in the rain! More recently, darling, as I got used to my hair, I also had to get used to being pregnant. Because the universe herself blessed me and your dad with you. As you grew in my belly, my knowledge of hair grew. Just as an expectant mother learns to eat and sleep for two, I was studying how to do hair for two. Everytime I did my own hair, I imagined myself preparing yours, from the first few blowouts and braids to wash-n-go curls. I was excited to teach you everything I learned. To make it normal for you in a way that it wasn’t for me. I wanted you to walk in the rain proud. And then, when you were born, as this little baby with a crazy head full of hair came out of me, I saw… you had hair like your Scandinavian dad’s. Fuck. Now I have more studying to do.