Debbie Rigaud is author of the young adult book Perfect Shot (pictured above), the first of Simon & Schuster Pulse Romantic Comedies series to feature an African-American (and natural haired!) protagonist. She reminisces on her hair story, and how it shaped her desire to feature a natural heroine.
Author Debbie Rigaud
Growing up, I was shaped by what other people said about me. My most talked-about characteristics were, of course, the most physically obvious ones—my lanky, skinny frame and my big hair. So, for the first ten years of my life, I thought I had long hair. I’d heard enough negative comments about my size to lead me to assume I wasn’t great-looking, but it sounded like I had the long hair thing in the bag.
Sure, I had reference for what long hair really looked like. Thanks to TV, I was aware of the “Jan Brady”s in the world. And then there was the Irish-American woman my uncle lived with (my cousins and I would play with her thigh-length hair like we were maypole dancing). But once I heard other people’s “long hair” remarks about me, I obediently drank the Kool-Aid.
For years I existed comfortably with this belief, until I switched elementary schools from an all-Black to an all-Latino/Italian/Portuguese one. There I was on the first day of fifth grade, with my freshly-pressed, shoulder-blade-length hair tightly pulled back into a ponytail. I had carefully read the school handbook, which sternly ordered all girls with long hair to wear ponytails—or else. Naturally, I complied. As a new student, I did not want to start off on the wrong foot.
I’ll never forget the cheeky girl with the XXLong pony tail pointing at me and snickering as my new classmates and I were led to our homeroom in an orderly fashion. It was then that it struck me that the school handbook wasn’t referring to me at all. The “long hair” bubble I was living in finally burst and I floated out of it. Sure, I was a bit shocked, but I was also free to wear my hair in any style I chose.
As I neared puberty, the new conversation was that straight hair made me look pretty. When my grandmother visited from DC, she’d bring along her straightening combs and my sisters and I all took turns in the “hot seat.” Nevermind that as a tween, I cartwheeled rather than walked, thus sweating out my hair faster than Grandma’s Greyhound bus mascot can run. I still cherished those few days when my hair was straight. It was my all-access pass to Pretty.
By high school, I’d learned how to stretch out my press and curl for weeks, until either my grandma visited or my aunt took pity on me and ran a hot comb through. Back then, most salons didn’t want to spend the time required to straighten a thick head of hair like mine, so I didn’t go to them. My private decision to forego the bone straight relaxed look became fodder for more communal discussion. “Somebody needs a touch-up bad,” I’d hear girls cracking as I’d walk by with my blow-out in sad shape. People wondered why I didn’t just perm my hair. It was the easy choice. And as with every other social activity in high school, everybody else was doing it. Why wasn’t I?
I debated the pros and cons for over a year. At 19, I decided a perm would give me more ownership over my hair. No longer would I have to wait around for a relative to straighten it for me. I still remember sitting in my hairdresser’s seat, listening to her squeal on about “all this virgin hair!” She couldn’t believe her luck and couldn’t want to break me in.
For me, the biggest “wow” factor about the perm was how water flattened my hair. Amazing.
But I gave it about two more touch-ups, and then I abandoned the relaxer altogether. My hair just felt too synthetic. I didn’t like it. I kept my hair braided and kept clipping at the ends. By the time I was a sophomore in college, I’d settled comfortably in the two cornrows hairstyle, and later, my trademark twists.
Of course, this decision generated chatter as well. To some, I was squandering my beauty. And to my mother in particular, I was offending my family, since I come from a line of hair straightening professionals. This profession fed, clothed and educated the generation ahead of me and now I was too good to wear my hair straight? To appease her, I’d straighten my hair from time to time.
Once I was approached by a younger Black girl who wanted to know where I was from. “East Orange,” I told her. She disagreed, and said that with my “long hair,” I must be from somewhere else. I didn’t want to affirm her assumption, but she gave me that I-knew-it look when she uncovered that my parents are from Haiti. I had come face-to-face with yet another girl who bought into that same ole story as I once had — that long or straight hair equaled beauty and that “regular”/non-mixed black girls were effectively locked out from achieving society’s highest standards of beauty.
I thought about that girl years later when I came across reader mail while working at Seventeen magazine. A 17-year-old Black girl wrote in looking for advice on how to tell her mother she wanted to get a perm. She wrote that she felt awkward being the only girl without a relaxer because people were talking about her. I responded to her letter, encouraging her to be certain that any decision she made be for herself and not for others. We began a correspondence, freely discussing hair politics and the social pressures surrounding it. In the end, she got the green light from her mom and excitedly relaxed her hair. That became, I’m sure, the start of but one interesting chapter in that girl’s hair story.
There’s something deeply affirming about rocking the natural look. I see the power it has to spread awareness, encouragement and inspiration and I kept this in mind as I dreamed up a fictional Black girl named London Abrams. London is the main character in my young adult book PERFECT SHOT—the first book in Simon & Schuster’s Simon Pulse Romantic Comedies series to feature a Black protagonist. She’s a sporty girl with a full head of kinky curls that she rocks as if it isn’t any issue at all. When London unwittingly enters a modeling contest, she never feels the need to straighten her hair to fit in or enhance her beauty. Hopefully girls of all hair textures and hairstyles accept London as one representation of them.
It’s funny. I’ve never worked in a corporate environment. That grammar school handbook was my closest brush with hairstyle restrictions. I have always been free to wear my ‘do any way I choose. Yet my hairstyle choices have struck a lot of nerves, sparked plenty of debates, and caused lots of heads to turn in admiration, shake in disgust and nod in acknowledgment. But I learned something key along my personal hair journey. Yes, everyone will share their opinion about my choice of coif, but people’s comments say way more about them—their fears, beliefs (imagined or real), desires—than they ever will about me.
And I think young black girls everywhere need to know that.
For more information about Perfect Shot, check out Debbie’s website HERE and her blog HERE.
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