Grease My Scalp

Sometimes, the smell would be sweet and sticky. On some days, it would be musky and strong. Whatever the particular fragrance note was that day, it would be carried through a wall of warmth that began by caressing the back of my neck, wafting around my ears, before reaching my nose. Then the knees. Never knobbly, always well padded with cocoa butter skin and mounds of soft flesh which would be used almost as a rein, squeezing my shoulders back into place when I had the audacity to try and escape the limb contraption.

The cushion was a wide, hard circular pouffe-type thing with intricate red velvet pleats and folds, held in place by a single button. For the next hour, this cushion would be both my throne and my naughty step. No words were said. There was no loving gesture - a peck on the cheek before starting perhaps? No inquiry into what I might actually want to do with my hair. Just…

"Do you want me to grease your scalp?" Might come from a cousin, or aunt. Someone I'm intimate with, but who doesn't have the full authority to hold complete dominion over my crown. It starts with the throw of the cushion, the twisting of the tin lid of the Dax or Blue Magic and the turning on of the TV to watch Desmonds, The Real McCoy, or if your luck is out that day, the God Channel.

Your hair bobble would be dragged out. Your hair roughly parted with the pointed or metal end of the comb and then the grease would be applied - generously or scantily depending on how new the container was. The grease was usually already being applied to dirty hair. I don't ever recall any grooming rituals post my weekly bath, where my hair would be scratchy and dry from the cheap shampoo sourced from the local corner shop and distinctly designed for Caucasian hair. We didn't even own a conditioner, no never a conditioner. Just complaints that my hair is too thick while she ripped it out with the comb.

The trauma continued throughout the session, whereby the comb would be planted into the root of your hair and scraped through, inevitably stopped by masses of coily hair. The thin-toothed tool would be halted by knots, lifting your scalp clean away from your skull, and giving you a temporary facelift while the Comb vs Hair brawl continued. It was decades, DECADES later before I learned to comb my hair from the tip to the root. A simple reversal act that saved me years of future pain, but was sadly unable to reverse the years of pain past.

After the pulling, the hitting, the ripping and dragging, the results were just astounding. Shiny, slick, black hair, twisted and curled into perfection. The Olan Mills photos do not lie. But was it worth it?

I began writing this essay, by reflecting on the intergenerational tenderness of sitting between another woman's legs, humbly on the floor, while she lovingly greased my scalp. An act that today I long for.

But as the words flowed, I only remember the pain. Black Women's pain is a pain so acceptable that Black mothers are four times more likely to die in childbirth in the UK. A pain we have been prepared for from childhood, with the constant scraping and prodding and creaming and pulling.

But like the rest of my healing journey, I have the opportunity to rewrite my narrative. I can use my big girl words, and my big girl boundaries and especially my big woman money to be serviced in the way I see fit. I can design my life how it works for me, and have my hair done in the exact way I want. My kink? Having my head and neck caressed. No fear of being burned (branded) with iron tools. Having my hair brushed slowly and gently, with strong fingers massaging my scalp. Being cared for.

But where do I procure this dream service where my head can be stroked, and loved on? Like most ambitious young women of colour attempting to climb the ladder of money and power, it became necessary for me to escape my small town of Wolverhampton and move to the centre of finance and knowledge. Some of you went to Oxford or Cambridge, but I went to London.

Over the twenty years of living in the city and building up my confidence, I have found Black women who acknowledge and understand the trauma. Not only of being a minority and feeling the pressure (which turned into desire) of having straight hair, but also of feeling the violence from our own caretakers across our skulls.

I have found stylists who understand that petrol and alcohol are probably not the best products to put on our hair, and sought out natural oils with which to massage my scalp.

But there is still a piece of me that longs for home. My home in Wolverhampton, in my Grandma's living room, sat on the floor. The halo home of Jamaican culture with its rhythm and laughter. One day I’m going to build it.

Imagine a salon that is a replica of your childhood home. The sounds of people coming in and out. Distant music merging from someone's bedroom merging with the sounds of the TV. Imagine sitting between those big strong elder woman legs but this time, being hugged, having your hair gently brushed, your scalp rubbed with rosemary and your hair calmly braided into two loose canerows and tied with silk ribbon instead of cheap elastic.

Imagine your friend walks in and says "Good Evening" the way we were taught to. Everyone turns their heads and says "Good Evening" in response. She sits down next to you and holds your hand.

I originally wrote this for Forgotten Lands, a magazine all about the Caribbean Experience.