Essay and Imitation of Rhoda Janzen's "Frizzy Hair"

Imitation of "Frizzy Hair"

Ethnic Hair

Manage the madness of sleepiness
that grows beyond death like
Methuselah. Ringlets offer

the coarse texture that reflects my dark skin.
Unlike the white folks, I desire to impress.
In my hand I hold only a hissing

flatiron. What man-made contraption that
forces me to dismiss the beauty that is my
own! Right before my eyes the locks

are trodden. Hot from the instrument, used
to press clothes, not hair, straightened hair
is like the middle finger to my ancestors 

of Africa, whose hair was wrapped in
beauty. In accepting their manes,
the women sashayed to the normalcy 

of loving their hair. The white folks must
have been surprised to learn that once
they asked to touch it, they could never

take it back. Such touch can easily
offend. The intentional extension of
 fingers to top of head that shocks the touched

is like the tiny but relentless
spasm of an amputated limb. Dark as
the dawn, my hair soaks up the moisture

desperately. It is a satin cap shimmering
with gold specks. See with what judgment
its patterned scarf will catch your eye

when you, looking over your shoulder
but finding yourself alone, question my race,
exactly as my mother said you would.

 -- --

This poem is an imitation of Rhoda Janzen’s poem “Frizzy Hair.” As a person of mixed-race heritage, hair has been the root of many tears and struggles, but also compliments and satisfaction. When I came across this poem by Janzen, I was somewhat surprised to discover a poem about hair from a white woman. Of course, most people have hair, and a large number of people have struggles with their hair as well—despite their race. However, over the years, my hair has been a source of my ongoing inner-battle that acts as a constant reminder that I am dissimilar from those that I see on a regular basis, in a way that is often uncomfortable to discuss.

            Since being at Goshen College, I have become somewhat more comfortable talking about my hair. I have wanted to write about my hair for a while now and this seemed like a perfect opportunity. In this piece, I refer to my ancestral roots. I imagine my female ancestors adoring their hair, not paying attention to or comparing their hair to that of white folks—something that I have dealt with in the past and still deal with today. I discuss the awkward encounters when someone asks if they can touch my hair, my mother’s attempts to explain my hair to me, and my belief that straightening ethnic hair is a bad thing, even though so many women with ethnic hair still do it.

            Besides a few borrowed lines here and there, the only thing I took from Janzen’s original was the title—I changed the content to my own hair identity and ran with it, or at least tried to. This poem is not meant to be snarky or attacking: I think that hair is a funny thing that all of us care too much about. Too often, we try to change the appearance of our hair so that we can meet the criteria for a certain kind of beauty. Really, we should all just embrace the natural beauty that our hair already offers us.