2-BSide
4B —Thursday, September 27, 2018
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Breanna Cross is an LSA
Junior
double
majoring
in
Communications and Spanish.
Originally
from
Southfield,
Mich., Cross has been doing hair
ever since she was a young girl.
She loved the creative agency
that braiding gave her in how
she chose to present herself.
Presently, Cross has made a
name for herself as one of the
key stylists specializing in Black
hair and braiding on campus.
Smiling, Cross reflected on
the success of her business,
Bre Natural Beauty, and her
love for Black hair. However,
she remembered a time when
vehement love for her hair didn’t
exist, and she isn’t alone in her
experience.
“When I grew up, starting
when I was really young, I
lived in a predominantly white
neighborhood,”
Cross
said.
“All of my friends had straight
hair, my mom had straight hair,
even the Disney princesses had
straight hair. They were the only
girls that had influence on me. I
hated my hair and I wanted my
hair to be long and flowy like
everyone else.”
Due to white supremacy and
Eurocentric beauty standards,
Black women from a young age
are conditioned to internalize
negative attitudes about their
hair
texture.
Messages
of
unkemptness, unattractiveness
and unprofessionalism permeate
descriptions of Black hair. To
assimilate, many Black women
resorted to straightening or
covering their natural hair.
Since the mid-2000s, Black
women around the world have
become advocates of the Natural
Hair Movement, a movement
for Black women to celebrate
and to indulge in the uniqueness
that comes with having kinky-
curly hair. The natural hair
movement is about more than
hair; it’s a radical movement of
self-love. It is is a movement to
reclaim agency — to reclaim the
lost love for yourself your hair,
your roots, in a way that society
historically has tried so hard to
discourage.
Cross claimed that having a
good relationship with your hair
is crucial for its vitality. Through
her business, she hopes to not
only create a good hairstyle, but
to also teach Black women how
to healthily maintain, grow,
treat and love their hair.
“If you don’t have a good
relationship with your hair,
you are going to do harmful
things to it,” Cross explained.
“It’s changing with the natural
hair
movement,
thankfully.
However, when I was younger, I
didn’t know anything about my
hair, and that’s why I hated it.”
The Natural Hair Movement
is, in essence, a love story, and
Cross’s work is a testament
to the recovery process Black
women around the globe are
having with their hair. Styling
hair gives Cross the agency to
invest patience and care into
Black hair, allowing her to fall
in love with her own hair and to
help others cultative that love
for themselves.
“Some of the most rewarding
things is being able to create
relationships with my clients
and to be able to constantly learn
about different textures,” Cross
continued. “Black hair is so
amazing to me because you can
do so many things with it, and
everyone has a different texture.
I love the people and I love
learning more about Black hair.”
“I love talking to people and
I love Black hair, and I love the
Black community. That’s why I
do what I do, and why I love it.”
Though Cross recognized the
unique significance of hair for
Black women, she warns about
viewing Black hair as more than
exactly that — hair. Just as some
Black women choose to identify
closely with their hair, Black
women should also be afforded
the same agency not to.
“I’m totally not attached to
my hair. I would cut it off the
next day with no worries,” she
laughs.
Cross’s
business
is
just
beginning to pick up momentum,
and she has no plans to stop any
time soon.
In the future, she has plans
to create a blog, a YouTube hair
channel, natural hair workshops
and natural hair organization.
She
also
wants
to
expand
her hair services to include
custom wigs and clip-ins. Cross
remains optimistic about her
business, and she looks forward
to learning more about herself
and the community through the
process.
“I can control my own destiny,
and I can control what I want to
do, or how, when and with who I
want to do it with. I have choice.”
Anyone
interested
in
contacting Cross can do so via
Instagram @bre.natural.beauty,
the Black Umich or Black hair
group chats, or email.
Breanna Cross on beauty,
boldness and Black hair
NA’KIA CHANNEY
MiC Editor
VH1
ARTIST
PROFILE
IN
‘I Wore My Blackest Hair’
Katelyn Mulcahy / DAILY
TV NOTEBOOK
“I am a lion with a black mane,
tearing my teeth on the piano
bench,” writes Carlina Duan in
the opening poem of her 2017
collection “I Wore My Blackest
Hair” (Little A, 2017). Her “black
mane” is a site of contested cultural
identity throughout the collection,
both symbolically and literally. It is
the part of her body she returns to
when her identity is questioned —
by others or by herself.
In “I Wore My Blackest Hair,”
Duan, who is Chinese-American,
grapples with the ways that her
appearance shapes and is shaped
by her evolving identity. Hair
— whether hers or her family
members’ — is where feelings of
belonging and exclusion physically
manifest. It is something concrete,
both mutable and essential.
“The first time I was aware of
my Asianness was when I asked
my mother why I wasn’t blond,”
wrote
fashion
writer
Andrea
Cheng in her April 2018 New York
Times article on Asian-American
women who bleach their hair. For
Cheng, hair is as much a physical
expression of who she is rather
than who she is not.
“Of course, my story is not
unique,” Cheng wrote. “It’s an
experience that’s probably shared
by most American-born Asians
as we shake off our perceived
otherness and strive to prove our
Americanness.”
For Duan, this is certainly the
case. Her hair is a mediator of her
“Asianness,” a metric by which
she and others gauge whether she
embraces or rejects her heritage.
“My mother is not / from
your country, / and I am not /
ashamed,” writes Duan in “Pledge
Allegiance.” “I slip my hands /
through her / wise hair, / and
keep.” Here, hair is a physical
reminder
of
Duan’s
mother’s
culture, and it bridges the divide
between them as Duan explores
MIRIAM FRANCISCO
Daily Arts Writer
Every sleepover I had from
elementary to middle school
ended the exact same way:
snuggled up under a million
blankets, popcorn in hand,
“America’s Next Top Model”
on the TV screen. As young
girls, my friends and I were
obsessed with the glamour
of it all. Tyra Banks took
ordinary girls and turned them
into gorgeous, high-fashion
women. When we were done
watching — and fighting over
our favorites — we would pull
out our Justice-brand lipstick
and hot pink brushes. Each of
us tried to make ourselves into
models, posing against white
walls
and
taking
pictures
with disposable cameras. We
wanted to be pretty, too.
Shows
like
“America’s
Next Top Model” and “What
Not To Wear” claim to be
transformative.
They
say
“come to us, change your look
and your life will change, too.”
It’s more than a wardrobe
full of new clothes. These
stylists stick these people in
a chair, then chop off, dye
and completely alter their
hair. Hair can mean a lot to a
person; it can be the place they
express themselves, the only
area of their body where they
have full and utter control.
Hair can show us where we
came from, unifying families
through a set of ginger heads
or tight ringlets. But on these
shows, watched by millions
and continued season after
season, your hair is what’s
holding you back.
On “America’s Next Top
Model,” the hairstyle was
often what made a potential
model’s makeover infamous.
In the often toxic modeling
industry,
natural
is
never
enough. Take Michelle on
Season 4 of “Top Model.” She
was a long-haired brunette,
but her makeover consisted
of bleaching her thick mane.
Michelle was visibly in pain
from how intense her dye job
was, and struggled to keep
it up throughout the season.
The next season, contestant
Cassandra Jean sobbed as
her long locks were cut into
a pixie cut à la Mia Farrow.
While
host
Tyra
Banks
empathetically assured her it
would grow back, comments
from the judges and other
contestants
alike
forced
Cassandra into an upsetting
position.
As
Cassandra
is
prepped for the cut, fellow
model Ebony is quoted in a
confessional saying, “It’s good
to see Cassandra showing
some emotion.” Shortly after,
judge Jay Manuel complains,
“It’s been 12 hours of crying.”
That’s not to say every
transformation was negative.
The show and its remodeling
would not have lasted as long
as it has if it was drenched
in pure gloom. Bianca from
Season 9 was meant to get a
blonde wig, but her hair was
too damaged to support it. So
the team went with Plan B,
and shaved it all off. While
Bianca was initially upset,
she embraced her natural look
and the hairstyle transformed
her into a regal, high-fashion
face. The same goes with
Kayla from Season 15, who had
two rules from her girlfriend
going in: No baldness and no
red hair. The latter rule was,
of course, broken, yet the hair
color turned an otherwise
ordinary girl into a unique
modeling asset.
Compare
the
uncertain
emotions
of
that
series
to
today’s
most
popular
transformation
show,
Netflix’s “Queer Eye,” and
the difference is telling. Yes,
“Queer Eye” is not preparing
people
for
the
cutthroat
world of modeling, but a lot
of the same elements of “Top
Model”
are
there.
Except
instead
of
crying
in
the
mirror as the hair you love is
taken away from you, you’re
laughing with perhaps the
most optimistic and loveable
force
on
television
today:
Jonathan Van Ness. Episode
after
episode,
Jonathan
doesn’t force a look on the
people he styles; he talks to
them, gets to know them and
gives them whatever hair,
beard or mustache revamp he
knows will make them happy.
Instead of crying tears of pain
and sadness, people on “Queer
Eye” cry tears of happiness, as
they find their true potential
and self while a chorus echoes
“yes honey!” behind them.
As
“Queer
Eye”
brings
home
three
Emmys,
the
ratings of “America’s Next
Top Model” have been on a
steady decline. This may be
a function of time and the
fading novelty of “Top Model,”
and the fact that “Queer
Eye” has become something
of a phenomenon. Yet the
changing
balance
between
the shows reveals something
more
about
what
viewers
are looking for. “Queer Eye”
radiates positivity, educating
and exposing viewers and
the cast alike to important
issues like the relationship
between the gay community
and the church or the lives
and struggles of transgender
individuals.
It
is
more
than just a makeover show;
“Queer Eye” is a snapshot of
contemporary society in a
vital stage of change. That
change just happens to start
with a few great haircuts.
People
already
feel
bad
enough about themselves. It’s
only natural that one might
want to turn to a more uplifting
show than one whose appeal
is based primarily in how
dramatically it can change its
contestants. Our hair is our
own, and whether we change
it should be left up to us. No
one should be made to feel bad
about something that came
from their own body, that was
formed by their own genes. As
our TV shows change, I can
only hope that our culture can
too, and that somewhere there
is a group of girls reaching for
their hair brushes right now,
smiling into the mirror and
lifting up their friends with
the
ever-reassuring
words:
“YAS queen!”
More than just a haircut:
strengths & shortcomings
of makeover television
SAMANTHA DELLA FERA
Daily Arts Writer
her identity as an Asian-American
woman. Duan’s desire to “keep” in
these poems — to keep her heritage,
her identity, her sense of self — is
all the more captivating given the
descriptions of earlier dismissals of
Chinese culture.
“To replace the languages our
mom spoke, we smoked up our
Chinese with blond dolls,” she
writes in “Little Sister, American
Girl.” As a teenager and young
adult, Duan’s relationship with her
hair and appearance changes with
her understanding of what it means
to be a young Asian-American
woman. This collection does not
trace a linear path from repudiation
to redemption, but instead tracks
moments of both bewilderment
and clarity, bestowing both with
equal importance.
As
she
matures,
Duan’s
sexuality becomes inextricably
tied
to
her
Asian-American
identity.
She
interrogates
her
own experiences of distance and
intimacy with a keen awareness
of the fraught territory mapped by
her own desire.
“A boy plumps his lips on
your throat / and asks you to say
something dirty / in Chinese,”
Duan writes in “Your Mom Tells
You To Stop Writing About Race.”
She does not stop writing about
race, as her mother requests;
instead: “you yank your hair / into
a knot at the back of your neck” and
doubles down on the subjects that
preoccupy her.
Duan’s hair is where the
line between recognition and
fetishization
becomes
most
apparent in her poetry. “he came
over. asked, What are you?” Duan
writes in “Here I Go, Torching.”
“black plains of hair. / plain of
mouth, of meat… I’m Chinese; see
me,” she continues.
She yearns to be recognized as
more than just her heritage without
being stripped of it. Hair becomes a
bridge to the things she wants but
does not know how to ask for. “I
want you to untouch my hair,” she
says in “I Want My Books Back,”
mourning the parts of herself she
shared and cannot regain.
Throughout
the
collection,
Duan commits and recommits
herself to her world. She is not
trying to escape anything — she
revels in the tangible, the terrible,
the mundane. Her hair is all of
these things; it unmasks her when
she wants to be hidden and hides
her when she wants to be seen. She
alternates between introspective
and hostile, giving herself room
to collect evidence of her own
contradictory
nature.
In
the
marrow of each poem lies Duan’s
abiding appreciation: for herself,
for her family, for how the process
of understanding her heritage has
both taken from her and made her
whole.
BOOKS NOTEBOOK
“If you don’t
have a good
relationship with
your hair, you
are going to do
harmful things
to it”