I scroll the #blacktravelfeed hashtag on Instagram enduring hour 5 of my hair braiding appointment. Three hours remaining, I contemplate changing my usual box braids style to Senegalese twists for my next beach holiday in Mexico, wondering if the looser-textured braids would withstand the heavy waters of the Caribbean. I also wonder how the beautiful, bikini-clad women on my feed maintain their silky Malaysian bundles while swimming, and why the weaves I wore in high school were so tragic. The Dominican hair braiders are speaking in a Spanish accent I quite haven’t grasped, despite being in Spain—yet the feelings of alienation and bewildered stares of fascination, judgment, and suspicion are non-existent inside one of the few Black beauty salons in the city.
The metamorphosis of the crown I call my afro is now neatly packaged into six packs of kanekalon hair in various shades of blonde and pink. I step outside of the salon and instantly feel the eyes of the fruteria shopkeeper next door daggered into my back along with echoes of guapa from the local drunks looting across the street.
Braiding shops have become sanctuaries in the all-white environments I am accustomed to while living in Europe.
The metal comb piercing my scalp to insert the braids is reminiscent of the comb my mother once used to part my kinky, freshly-washed hair awaiting a silk press before important childhood events such as school plays and birthday parties; events where every little Black girl arrived with pressed hair and avoided anything involving water.
Twenty years later, I am far past the desire to have bone-straight hair, yet I can probably count the number of weeks my hair is in its natural state in the course of a year.
Airplane transfers, limited baggage space that does not fit all of the moisturizing creams my hair needs to flourish, and the exhaustion of moving from place to place is how box braids have become my go-to, everyday hairstyle for the past five years. I no longer live in places where beauty supply warehouses are in abundance and climates stable enough to make leaving and returning home with the same hairstyle possible. The convenience, time, and money saved with protective styling is why my black, curly hair makes only an occasional appearance. But, as I continue traveling and navigating the world as a young, African-American woman, the styling of my hair is always a topic of discussion. A discussion, that is, if it is not being touched without my consent.
Despite the natural hair movement gaining traction and encouraging Black women of all textures to accept their natural hair, racism and sexism continue to emerge with the visibility of Black hair, whether in natural or protective styles. In heteronormative societies, where a woman’s hairstyle is a measure of “properly” performing femininity, the gatekeeping of blackness and the shaping of one’s cultural and gender identity through hair texture, styling, and length forcibly write Black femme narratives, more noticeably so while traveling.
White supremacy, featurism, and the beauty politics that psychologically influence how Black women wear their hair are all intertwined with aspects of classism that exist within leisure travel. Black Americans spent $104.9 billion on travel in 2019, and with the emergence of Black travelers across the diaspora exploring the world, the world is subsequently exposed to various Black identities– and in hindsight, various Black hairstyles.
But, beyond the gawks and requests to touch it, the styling of Black women’s hair is regularly utilized as a tool for discrimination, and in some cases, privilege, when in non-Black spaces abroad.
Hairstyle is a False Marker of Cultural Identity
The ‘Where are you really from?’ question Black Americans are always asked is still a surprisingly difficult indicator of my exact ethnicity to many, because the guesses differ depending on how my hair appears that day.
When wearing box braids, I am spoken to in French and assumed to be from a French-speaking African country. In Spain, whenever my hair is in its natural state, guesses range from the Dominican Republic to Brazil, or any other Latin American country with a prominent Black population. It isn’t until my bad Spanish outs me as an American. Traveling Central America in braids, when alone and away from other tourists, I am spoken to in Spanish instead of English, as if I’m not just another clueless gringo, but with darker skin.
In Twisted: The Tangled History of Black Hair Culture, author Emma Dabir argues that hair reflects blackness more than skin, which is why unambiguous Black women still have their identities questioned in some communities. Those benefiting from texturism, especially those with longer, looser curl patterns, have leverage in societies that maintain colorist ideologies stemming from colonization. The notorious, “Are you mixed?” inquiries to Black women with anything that isn’t shoulder-length, 4C hair (implying one must have heritage aside from Black, and typically said as a compliment) is an effect of brainwashing and the longing for assimilation in Black communities.
The consequences of white colonization will always sustain the desire to have “good hair”, however texture, styling, and protective styling, can allow Black women to play up or play down our Blackness, allowing those traveling to dodge local hostility from their pre-made assumptions of Black identity. Furthermore, in places where Black identity is all lazily lumped together like the Black hair care products spread across a single shelf in supermarkets, locs, twists, tracks, and lace fronts are rarely differentiated in non-Black environments, and remaining under the radar can be difficult with or without the vast hair extremities.
Hairstyle is a Reflection of Social Class
In many ancient societies, robust men and women were celebrated over their thinner counterparts where fatness signified wealth. Paleness was, and still is, praised in Asian cultures, as fairer skin is a result of not having to work low-paid, labor jobs in the sun. In early African civilizations, hairstyle reflected marital status, family background, and tribe, in addition to one’s position on the social hierarchy. Egyptian Queen Cleopatra’s iconic braided bob was worn frequently in Egypt to downplay her Greek heritage and appear more Ptolemaic, yet her hairstyle changed into a curled bun when traveling to appeal to foreign audiences.
Hair expression and experimentation come secondary to those traveling for non-leisure purposes, where convenience is prioritized over aesthetics. Leisure travel is accessed by those within certain class levels, and for Black women, the ability to express (and protect) their hair is done so freely and without financial and social restraint. Though Black women are often judged solely on their hair upon first impression, hairstyle of choice is a distinguisher between tourist and local. When gazing at the African male immigrants selling trinkets on the streets in prime European tourist locations, it is rare to see a Lil Uzi-Vert-esque purple do. Hairstyle, and ultimately the freedom of expression through style, is not always an option for non-white immigrants who may have no other option but to assimilate, nor the money or desire to experiment with flashy styles. Black travelers, on the other hand, are allowed to have “outlandish” hair without harsh ostracization from the local community; similar to how young, provocatively dressed foreign women in short skirts get passes while local women wearing the same may face harsher repercussions.
Contrarily, I was once called a “fake bitch” by an obviously strung-out man inside the Berlin metro for not giving him money. I’m assuming my “fakeness” was an ode to my half-blonde, half-silver box braids, and Saturday night, ‘goth girl’ makeup look. Insults from the deranged aren’t anything I’m not used to when traveling, but his disdain for me (besides refusing him money), which may or may not have been racially motivated, was not for being ugly, not for being in his country taking up resources, not for sexually rejecting him, but for looking “fake”.
For women, hair extensions, nails, makeup, and other beauty enhancements trickle into the possession of ‘pretty privilege’, which can be achieved monetarily. In this particular case, my appearance gave the impression I had enough wealth to maintain my personal style, meaning I had enough money to lend him. Along with the uniqueness of my hairstyle, appearing as a “high-maintenance” Black woman was an obvious trigger that is frequently experienced by mediocre men intimidated by “others” with better lives than them, all embedded in the white fragility that often disrupts the trips of Black travelers.
Hairstyle is a Threat if Not Immersed into Whiteness
Afro hair is often used as a political weapon to reject Eurocentric standards of beauty. Ways in which women perform femininity in the Western world are all rooted in Eurocentrism, so Black women choosing to wear an afro, shaved head, or simply non-manipulated, natural hair rather than straight, wigged, or weaved hair is how many resist the pressures of white conformity enacted on people of color as forms of control. Consequently, instances of white insecurity arise when Black people willingly “other” themselves in spaces where white protection and assimilation are expected to maintain the status quo that is white supremacy.
I wore my natural hair during my two months volunteering in rural Fiji, one of the few countries I truly blended in. A country where brown skin and kinky hair aren’t unorthodox. My white, Australian project leader, Alice, after a coconut oil-induced twist-out done by my Fijian host mother, snickered and compared me to Albert Einstein. Being only nineteen, I didn’t understand the anti-Black implication of her comment, but instead decided that I should only wear my hair down on a day not so humid for it to appear less frizzy, and subconsciously gain the validation I thought I needed to feel somewhat secure in this all-white, volunteer commune.
In a fashion typical of many drawn to voluntourism, the White Savior Complex does not fully prevent one from spouting culturally insensitive comments against the very people they are trying to help.
Alice would have never made those comments to (the face of) a Fijian woman. Insulting the appearance of a “disadvantaged” brown woman would not have fit the We are the world narrative her identity desperately clung onto to prove how not racist she is.
Ridiculing my hair, despite it looking nearly identical to the people in the country we were both visitors of, was fair game because, in this volunteering context, we shared the same level of class, allowing us to exist in the same space on equal footing. My Western passport held me to a different beauty standard than the natives, where I was expected to craft my physical appearance to appease whites instead of non-white, non-western ideals of beauty. Her disapproval of my hair demonstrated the racist notion that any collective group of Black and Brown peoples’ ideals of beauty and culture isn’t valued if not centered around whiteness.
I spent the remainder of my trip in a high, slicked-down bun, too afraid to go scrunchie-less in fear of critique, instead of letting it bounce unapologetically like the beautiful Fijian. A reminder that despite globalization and pleas for diversity, Black hair is still the butt of the joke.
Hairstyles Have Different Social Implications
Until recently, Black women and girls were never fully encouraged to experiment with their hair. Growing up, suburban white kids who dyed their hair green were edgy alternatives who didn’t have the word ‘ratchet’ used to describe their non-conforming styles. Black girls’ options for hair experimentation were limited to whatever styles would help navigate white environments without suffering too much discrimination. A Black girl with green hair, even if upper-middle class, even if college-educated and working the same corporate job as her white peers, will always be ‘ghetto’ before ‘goth’.
My infamous beachy, blonde box braids attract young, white travelers looking to purchase drugs, and invitations to nude, full-moon beach parties I’d rather sit out. I chuckle at those disappointed to discover I’m more haughty than hippie, but the perks of my braids, unfortunately, stop at offers of free marijuana. Instead, I am stereotyped into more nefarious tropes.
I am sexually harassed a lot more when wearing colored braids in comparison to my natural, black hair, and in many cases, mistaken as a sex worker. In destinations where Black representation is lacking, Black travelers are caricatured into forms of entertainment and consumption, where self-expression, cultural identity, and the amount of anglicization in one’s appearance must be analyzed to determine treatment in the communities willingly entered.
Sadly, countries of color are not exempt from misogynoir and showing unease with unconventional expressions of Black womanhood. One notable experience from my travels, despite being a beloved destination for many Black travelers, was my trip to Morocco.
I had blue hair, and throughout my visit, insults hurled my way from rejected street vendors ranging from ‘Lady Caca’ (a play on poop, I’m assuming) to ‘whore’. I was more than astonished, to say the least, that my first trek to the African continent was where I received the most verbal abuse. I eventually realized it wasn’t necessarily my complexion (though, it did not prevent me from getting called the N-word by a group of Berbers), but the display of my abnormally colored hair in a culture where patriarchal expectations of appearance are more clearly defined and followed.
Perhaps the Moroccan men saw my blue hair alongside the oversexualized images of Black women in rap videos who happen to have colored hair, and I was simply held to a higher standard than non-Black women, which resulted in the ’whore’ comments (because it certainly wasn’t my clothes). Regardless, I was not afforded basic human decency because of my non-conforming hair in a society where women are expected to cover it.
The Global Entitlement of Black Bodies and the Molestation of Afro Hair
Requests for photos from onlookers are a usual occurrence for many Black travelers, but the souvenir treatment borders fetishism and anti-Blackness when the fingers of said onlookers suddenly slide from the camera button and into the trenches of a Black person’s hair.
Masqueraded as curiosity and defended with “cultural ignorance” by those less bothered by the parallels of being modern-day human zoos, the unwanted plundering into a Black woman’s hair is an allegory for centuries of imperialism and violence experienced at the hands of sexism and anti-Blackness; but today, in mild, microaggressive forms.
A heterosexual woman’s self-expression in its essence panders to the male gaze, and if we measure traditional femininity in accordance with satisfying the male gaze, voluptuous, attention-grabbing hair is an invite for male pestering. Black women, who are already hypersexualized to an extreme extent, that willingly practice traditional gendered performances of beauty, are oftentimes at risk for sexual harassment.
Black hair for centuries has been shamed, hidden, and villainized, and the complete autonomy Black women have over their bodies and hair is still forced into alignment with the male gaze while still policed. The heads of Black slaves were shaved to strip their ethnic identities as a tool of dominance during the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, and women were forced to wrap their hair so as to not sexually entice white slave owners. Tignon laws in 1700s Louisiana forced Black Creole women into headscarves to combat fears of attracting “too much attention” to their elaborate hairstyles.
Today, white and non-Black people who adhere to white rhetoric, continue to perpetuate their false ownership of Black hair and, more frighteningly, Black bodies, by touching it without permission.
The number of strange, unknown men who have pulled on my braids or tried to pat the poof of my hair down to force me into an unwanted conversation is disappointingly high enough to warrant the conclusion that Black women are still not awarded boundaries. Men failing to understand consent is not a sudden problem experienced by women, but women with non-afro textured hair do not experience this level of invasiveness. Unsolicited touching goes beyond sexual harassment and directly into the permitted dehumanization of Black people. And while I may be the most interesting person to look at on the public bus at times, violating both my personal space is inherently racist, even if you innocently want to see if the braid will come out if pulled hard enough.
The travel sphere lacks representation from those non-white, non-cis, and anything outside of the dominant white, heteronormative realm we’re forced to live in.
Within my online spaces, Black women of all colors and cultures mark their presence across the globe with their beauty and range of hairstyles, a reminder that Black hair and Black womanhood is not the burden society has made it to be. We are continuously proving that hair should not be degraded and colonized, both at home and abroad.
We’ve come a long way from relaxing our hair before getting on an airplane.
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