straight without using any
other chemicals. You’re almost
a preferred, VIP Black person,
and
that’s
unfortunate,”
Hopkins said.
The
same
is
true
in
many
other
cultures
and
communities, but all art will
have its critics. In the same way
artists learn to love what spills
from their hearts onto the
canvas, women of color learn to
embrace their “preferred” hair
type.
Liznel
Ferreira,
a
former stylist,
also
had
to
come to terms
with her hair.
“Now I love it
because I know
I can wear it so
many different
ways … it was
a
process
in
figuring
out
how to manage
my
hair,”
Ferreira said.
This
movement
from
relaxed
to natural hair
is not just a
reflection
of
self-identity,
but it’s a fight
against history
and the social
norm
when
the
society
is telling you
that your curls,
your
personal
identity
and
art form, are
wrong.
“Growing up,
my hair was always compared
to my sisters’ hair because
their curls were softer. I grew
up putting relaxer in my hair,”
Ferreira explained.
When I was younger, I
straightened my hair often
because I saw that as beautiful.
Toward the end of high school,
I finally stopped fighting my
hair and tapped into the cosmic
energy both Zinis and Hopkins
felt in their hair by nurturing
my natural curl pattern. It was
the most freeing decision I
have ever made, and it is a bold
statement I make as a woman
of color.
“Natural hair is huge: it’s big,
it’s unruly, it’s uncontrollable
… you are literally saying, ‘This
is what freedom looks like.’
And that is something that
is scary to people, especially
pertaining to WOC. We are
the bottom of the totem pole
when it comes to privilege and
status,” Hopkins explained.
Like art, hair is a political
and
personal
statement,
especially for women of color
like myself and Hopkins. Hair
sends a message out into the
world that we are here and
we are going to take up space
and display the art that grows
naturally out of our scalps
unforgivingly.
“I’m going to take up space.
A lot of it. I’m going to take up
all of your space, and you are
going to have to deal with it,”
Hopkins exclaimed.
Just as one would go to a
museum and not touch the
artwork, the same rules apply
for hair. What grows out of our
scalps is our own work — one
that Michelangelo cannot even
truly recreate. No matter what
type of hair, or lack of hair, you
are making a statement. It is a
masterpiece in itself. We have
to uplift and encourage each
other by educating ourselves
about the nature of the artwork
and the history surrounding
it to truly appreciate and
understand
it.
This starts with
education.
“When I was
23, I decided to
go to cosmetology
school,”
Ferreira
said.
“When
I
was there, I did
not learn how to
deal with hair of
my texture. … We
always worked on
fine hair.”
If we knew more
about
hair
and
could
appreciate
the uniqueness of
it, then maybe we
would not be so
scared to let loose
and let our natural
self-expression.
Our
hair,
or
lack
thereof,
shapes
who
we
are. It tells the
world who we are.
Hair offends and
confuses. It brings
people
together
and
alienates.
Hair
frustrates
us,
finds
us
community
and
validates
our
identities. Hair makes us feel
new and vibrant, giving us new
energy and empowerment that
we never knew we had inside of
us. It is a powerful connector
and divider, and we decide
where the trajectory goes.
2B —Thursday, September 27, 2018
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Dissecting the art of hair in AA & beyond
Nothing compares to that
feeling you get when you walk
out of the salon with a fresh
haircut, that feeling of newness
and transformation when you
leave the hair salon. For those
few moments, you strut out
of the salon and feel like you
can
conquer
anything
that
comes your way, feel like you’re
validated and you want people
to notice you. If we take a
moment to consider this, it’s so
strange to think these strands
of keratin and dead skin cells
can make us feel so on top of
the world. This strangeness
is common for clients and the
hair stylists who create this art
growing out of our heads.
Nicholaus Zinis, owner and
stylist of Nola’s Underground
Salon, is a bald man with a
passion for hair. Walking down
the dingy, narrow staircase
into a basement to get to
Nola’s
Underground
Salon,
I was bombarded by colors
and designs that released a
sort of cosmic energy into
the atmosphere. As I walked
through the fuzzy wallpapered
space, my eyes were inundated
with
velvet
and
random
antiques hanging all over the
wall. Zinis, a colorful man in
fantastic flowy pants, promptly
greeted me.
When we think of artists, we
seldom think of hairstylists. We
think of the struggling artist,
someone who has a paranormal
connection
with
a
canvas.
For Zinis, his canvas is hair.
He uses universal energy and
this seemingly otherworldly
inspiration to do his work and
create art.
“If you look at the hair, read
it and touch it, it will tell you
what it wants to do,” Zinis
said. “I can’t even claim credit
for the haircut, it just flows.
You tap into the universal love
that flows through your arms.
Every haircut I do takes three
seconds; my day goes by in
minutes.”
Zinis is a doctor in hair
practice,
scientist
of
color
and artist of style all in one.
He mixes colors and creates
masterpieces, each one unique
in its own way. He is aware
every single person who walks
through the doors of his salon
is different — both in hair and
personality.
“Sane people don’t do hair
… you have to deal with a lot of
personalities and pure, crazy
chaos,” Zinis said.
For Zinis, it is not just about
shaping art, but the personal
connections he makes as a
stylist. He quit his corporate job
to become a hairstylist, and has
since been surprisingly fulfilled
with the human connections he
has made with his clients. That
wonderful connection we feel
with our stylists is genetically
predisposed.
“How
do
animals
bond?
Through
grooming,”
Zinis
explained. “When you groom
each other, you sit in the chair
and it’s just diarrhea of the
mouth.”
“I had a group of students,
and they left in April and none
of them got their hair cut in the
summertime because they were
like, ‘It’s not the same, I can’t
get my hair cut now.’ They came
back in the fall with a summer’s
worth growth of hair, and they
were like, ‘I wanted to wait to
get my haircut with you.’”
You establish a close bond
with your stylist by working
together to express yourself
through hair. Stylists humble
themselves
by
washing
your
hair, placing you
in a vulnerable
state.
The
trust
that
you
immediately
give to another
person to shape
this
new
part
of you, to help
create
your
identity
and
show it to the
world
is
such
an
intimate
experience.
“We’ve
had
people who are
suicidal
who
come and get a
haircut,”
Zinis
explained.
He
shared a story of
a client who had
decided not to
commit
suicide
after getting a
haircut because
Zinis
had
listened to him
and showed care
for him when he
came
into
his
studio.
“So
is
it
a
haircut? No, it’s so much more
than that.”
Hair is art, beautiful and
expressive, but we often miss
telling another side of the story.
Just as visual and performance
art shapes culture, so does hair.
A side of the story that has been
brushed under the rug for too
long is the story of hair as an
art form for women of color. It
is through the experiences of
women of color that expression
through hair has been an
essential part of identity for
a long time, and it is time we
notice.
Growing up, I was known
as the girl with the long hair. I
remember one of my elementary
school
teachers
taking
out
a
ruler to measure
the length of my
hair in front of
the entire class,
commenting
on
its
length
and
fullness.
I
grew up around
the
smell
of
burnt
hair
in
the
Dominican
hair
salons
in
Washington
Heights,
New
York; the sound
of
mighty
Dominican
stylists chatting
loudly in Spanish
about the latest
gossip
of
the
neighborhood;
the
sounds
of
praise over my
“good”
hair.
The heat of the
blow dryer is a
distinct feeling I
will never forget.
My
hair
was
being shaped by
these
women,
and at the same
time they were
shaping me and who I was.
As I grew older, I started
to get my hair cut in upscale
salons
in
SoHo.
There,
I
became
accustomed
to
the
smell
of
bleached
hair.
I
familiarized myself with the
side-eyed glances of straight-
haired blonde women toward
my dark and curly hair. I grew
used to being pampered, being
offered
complimentary
tea
and paying at least $125 for a
haircut. My hair evolved into
bragging rights for me — how
much I spent on my haircut
and products, the length of
my hair, and the beautiful and
perfect curl texture that took
form. My curls were a sign of
my privilege, the privilege of
fitting more into the white
normative than other people of
color, especially women.
Khalya
Hopkins,
an
employee for the New York
City Department of Education
and one of the fiercest women
to which I have ever spoken,
wears her own “crown of glory”
with pride, as her art comes to
form in a very different manner.
She found art in her hair with
bantu knots and hair wraps,
both ways of wearing your
hair when “transitioning,” a
term that describes the process
women of color, usually women
with kinky hair, undergo when
shifting from putting chemicals
in their hair to wearing it
natural.
“People
don’t
understand
that when you do transitions,
that’s almost like a spiritual
journey,” Hopkins said. “You
have to talk yourself through
that.”
“I’ve been sitting around
ingesting
white
normative
beauty for so long, that it’s
not just cutting your hair.
It’s cutting off a piece of your
identity. I’ve identified with
being part of the status quo
of beauty, right? Longer hair,
straighter hair. And I had to
make a decision that I was no
longer going to perpetuate that
standard.”
Hair is a status symbol.
“That’s a badge of honor —
when you can keep your hair
ISABELLE HASSLUND
Daily Arts Writer
SARAH KUNKEL / DAILY
Hair is art and
it is beautiful and
expressive, but
we often miss
telling another
side of the story.
Just as visual and
performance art
shapes culture, so
does hair
Our hair, or lack
thereof, shapes
who we are. It
tells the world
who we are. Hair
offends and it
confuses. It brings
people together
and alienates.
SARAH KUNKEL / DAILY
BSIDE LEAD