A Black Girl’s Hair Horror Story: Dating, “Decepticons,” and Addressing Weave While Dating
I’ve been in this natural hair game for 10+ years, so when I tell you that my hair and I have a love-hate-toxically-delicious relationship, understand we have history. At this point, I’m known for my hair. The self-professed twist-out qween, you will often find me with my hair out and proud. And although I’m very proud of my hair, I do not say this as a form of braggadociousness; rather, I offer it to show my general aesthetic has a lot to do with the silhouette my hair casts.
This is how I represent myself in person, online, and on this particular dating website that I’m a reluctant member of. (Ohhhh….this sounds like another post on online dating should be linked here, no? Check out my post on Dating While Black: Red (and Yellow) Flags for Black Girls in the Dating World.)
In the dating game, especially online, one thing I’ve learned is that you should ALWAYS represent yourself as you appear most often. The fear of the dogged catfish is a disgustingly patriarchal, yet sometimes understandable, fear you must address if you are to delve into this world successfully.
Many have offered me tips on successful dating, from what to wear on a first date, what make-up is suitable, how to find the right pond…even down to what type of pictures to use and descriptions to write. (Hint: almost all tips involve smiling and sounding positive…yikes).
What no one ever talks about is…how do we address weave?
Weave and Dating
Now, as a Black woman who understands and LOVES the history behind Blackness and weaves, wigs, extensions, hair art, and hair sorcery, I think it is well known by now that many of us love extensions; it’s in our DNA. And culturally, the constant shifting and styles and the enormous creativity we exhibit with our hair is a marvel unparalleled.
(Remember when I said your pictures should appear as you generally appear?...Stay with me here…)
Men who see my pictures often remark on how much they love my hair. They love the curls, the length, the fullness…yada yada yada. This, in turn, drives me down the road of thoughts about hair fetishism, texturism, long-hair privilege (yes, it’s a thing), and that very murky territory I often swim through when determining whether a man is a colorist or not. (More on that later). I generally respond with, “Thank you,” and keep it moving, because although it is not the most remarkable thing about me, it is often the most remarked on…at least initially.
Below, I have posted a mix of pictures of my natural hair and my extensions/wigs/clip-ins. Can you tell the difference?
Well…men can’t.
And THAT is the problem.
People often ask me how I grew my hair so long. There’s not one factor, but I can safely say that the biggest contribution to my success has been protective styling. In the beginning stages of my hair growth journey, I used braids, Senegalese twists, and even crochet styles. But as I grew and my hair with it, I realized that my aesthetic has always been big hair…huuuuuge hair. Wearing these protective styles, although pretty effective, just wasn’t my vibe. But I knew enough about my hair to know that if I wore my fine, high porosity strands out every day, I would have none left. So, my compromise?...wear extensions that look like my hair.
When I tell you I’ve spent yeeeeeears and thousands to find my go-to hair companies, a lie isn’t in me. I can pull from drawers of clip-ins, wigs, half-wigs, ponytails…all of it….at the drop of a hat. Now, I have my stash, my staples, my steez, and my signature style.
Still don’t have my man though. Which brings me back to dating.
Have You Ever Been Scalp-checked?
I had been talking (and I mean literally talking, by phone, not the creepy word used to badly describe the interim between connection and commitment) to this man for about two months. We had talked, video chatted, and texted religiously. Normally, we would have met in person prior to this point….but dat ‘Rona doe….
Anyway, he finally said he could not go any longer without seeing me; he needed to know if we had the same chemistry in person as by phone. So, with some hesitation and strict conditions, I agreed.
We went on a date. Thankfully, I live in the South so it’s still relatively warm when other places are pulling out snow shovels. We went on a lunch date in the park….blanket on the ground, sandwiches, fruit, sweets, flowers, wine…it was very Instagram worthy I assure you. The date was really beautiful initially. I already knew we had so much in common but seeing someone in person is really quite a striking difference than gazing at them through Duo (Team Samsung baby). We laughed a lot and even discussed our views on politics and the economy. (I know, this was risky, but he’s really quite well-read in economics and taught me so much).
When I first meet someone, I do make it a point to always wear my real hair and minimal makeup on the first few dates. Again, I recognize that some men are not fans of the makeup/lashes/frontal aesthetic (that so many girls are KILLING by the way). And if I’m being completely honest, I haven’t dated many professional men that do. Focus on the “I” here. He gave me many compliments on my hair, so much so that my mind automatically went into the “Warning, possible colorist ahead!” alarm, but I steadied my fears and remained placid. However, near the end of the date, the following exchange occurred:
Him: “Lauren, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, and I’m so sorry if this is offensive, is that really your hair?...So many women lie and I just need to be sure.
My head: “Wtf is this man smoking?! I can’t believe this ni----….ok…chill out. You said you’d be more open, so just think of a response…but what the hell does he need to be sure about? Is my hair really a dealbreaker, does he think I’m a liar, or is he so dense as to really think I’m not capable of growing this hair on my own?” AND WOULD HE ASK A WHITE WOMAN, RACIALLY AMBIGUOUS WOMAN, OR HISPANIC WOMAN THE SAME DAMN QUESTION????”
My mouth: “You certainly cannot feel in my head, because that is weird, but if you like, I will part my hair all around so that you can see for yourself.”
So my dumb a** proceeds to RUIN a perfectly beautiful twistout by making a myriad of parts and letting him see the sea for himself. Satisfied, he sighs with contentedness and continues as if nothing has happened.
In spite of that indignation my scalp had just witnessed and the incredulousness I felt at even being asked that request, we went out a second time. (I mean, how many people can I find that share my love of all things Agatha Christie?) I fully recognize that as a 30-something, I am very set in my ways, and being more open is something I should do when trying to determine a partner. Still, in spite of the fact that this whole interaction was just…icky, I thought to myself…”Let’s just see.” The second date was amazing. Did I mention he was incredibly handsome?... 6’ 4, a captain in the army that had investment properties, and well- educated. We went to an outdoor town festival, where we chatted, ate overcooked Turkey legs, and bought trinkets I’ll never use.
But now comes the dreaded question: “When do I introduce my weave?” Dates one and two had consisted of a twist-out on blown out hair and a large bun with my hair pinned in faux bangs. But when he asked me to go out to dinner with him the following week, my hair was no longer my own. I had braided my hair down and was wearing a full set of clip-ins with leave-out, since I had the urge for straight hair but was not willing to put all of my hair through that stress of a flat-iron. “No big deal,” I convinced myself. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.
Well…I got to it.
By the third date, naturally he had become more ‘touchy-feely,’ as expected when two people have a physical attraction. So, as we were standing in line waiting to be seated at an outdoor restaurant in Auburn, he gingerly reaches around my waist and pulls me toward him in what seemed to be an affectionate kid hug from where he stood behind me and rested his chiseled jawline on my head. (Remember, he is 6 feet plus). It is then that he realizes that where his chin should have been naturally flush with a warm scalp, instead he feels the firm outlines of braids underneath my well-placed clip-ins. I immediately recognize what has occurred because he pulls away (keeping his hands around my waist mind you). “That’s not your hair?” He says in disbelief.
“No,” I said coyly, hoping to deflect from what obviously was an uncomfortable situation for us both.”
“But, I saw your hair…it looks just like your hair…” his stammering response.
My reply: “Yes, but I don’t always want to fool with my hair, so I wear extensions sometimes.” (More like most of the time I mused to myself.)
“I see.”
By this time, it’s our turn to be seated so he releases me, and we walk to our table on the veranda. This should be interesting. We make small talk, order drinks and an overpriced appetizer, and then we settle in for further discussion…hopefully, about something else. At first, the discussion is pleasant...easy.
Photo by Matthieu Huang on Unsplash
But no. We’re back.
Him: “So, you wear weave a lot, huh?”
Me, my face, still placid: “Frequently yes. I like the flexibility of being able to switch back and forth.” I left it at that, honestly hoping we could move on because at this point, I was flummoxed and irritated.
Him: “Well, if we were married you know that would have to stop right?” My eyebrows raised and then my eyes narrowed. Recognizing his error, he quickly adds, “I mean you don’t need it. You have beautiful hair without it.”
Me: “I love my hair, but it takes a long time to do it to look like I want it to look. I like having my weekends free, so that I can do things like get to know you.” (Still on the diversion tactics you see. Was my feminine charm working yet?)
Him: “Yeah, but I just think it’s messed up, like y’all are trying to trick us or something.
(Ok…the tone of this exchange is markedly darker now.)
Me, getting angrier and wondering when “I” became a “Y’all,” but still calm: “How am I tricking you when you’ve already seen my hair? Did you want me to announce to you that today I’m wearing weave?”
I then chuckled and asked, “Do you know any Black women?” I said this jokingly, in an effort to calm myself down really.
Him: “Yea, and this is why I really don’t date them. Y’all always want to catfish us…with all the makeup, the weave, the lashes, the waist snatchers or whatever they are. Real men don’t like that shit. We like women who are natural. That’s probably why you wouldn’t let me touch your hair earlier. You were foolin’ me then too, huh?”
Oooo the misogynoir just leapt out…and I’m just looking around like “Who is this fool talkin’ to?”…but ok, playtime is over…
Me in my head: “Excuse me? Real men? Well, ‘real men’ must not know their real history. Black women were and are the envy of every other civilization because wigs, extensions, hair ornamentation, they got that from us. These same white women you oogle over on Instagram are wearing clip-ins too, you just don’t care because they’re more palpable to you anyway.
Me out loud: Let me ask you something, would you have asked a white woman to let you see if her hair was real? They’re no more natural than we are; you just excuse it because that’s what you really want. Secondly, we’re in a pandemic; I didn’t let you touch me because I didn’t know you, and apparently, I still don’t. And your logic is ridiculously flawed; if I hated my hair so much, why would I invest soooo much money into ensuring that the hair I buy looks exactly like the hair I grow... Even to the point that you couldn’t even tell? I haven’t hidden anything from you. You’ve seen who I am with my hair and with my weave, with my makeup and without, dressed up and in my bathrobe through a camera in bad lighting. At this point, if I’m not your type just say that and don’t sugarcoat your self-hate or personal issues with an epic fail of making me feel less-than because you don’t like weave.”
Or something like that. Y’all, I really can’t even remember everything I said because if you know me, when I get mad, the Thesaurus-Taurus comes out of me and I ain’t playin’ fair.
And I honestly have no clue what his response was.
I got up, walked inside and over to the bar and asked for my waiter. I inquired if our drinks had already been prepared. He said they had. I gave him my card, asked him to pay for mine, even though I wasn’t going to drink it, so that I could leave. He glances at me, glances over at my date who by this point is visibly agitated outside, and he says, “Don’t worry about it. Do you need anything else?” No thank you I said. I walked out of the back door, got into my car, and left that man and his ignorance behind.
Natural Hair Has “Ruined” My Dating Life
So much to unpack here. Honestly, I had a hunch that this man didn’t date Black girls. How did I know this? Well, call it the shadowy blessing of age and experience, keen observatory prowess, mixed in with my mother’s discernment, and sprinkled with critical thinking skills. I’d tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but even moving past the blatant self-hate and miseducation of this otherwise wonderful brotha, how do we navigate conversations about weave when dating? Especially in a catfish farm of a world? Is this something Black women should have put in their profiles? “Note: although the hair pictured in my photos is mine, many times it is not. I wear weave. Thanks.” Who really wants to write, let alone read that?
Do we owe men an explanation up front? I understand that there are different issues specifically pertaining to Black men and Black people that I’ve only alluded to here, but I suspect I will address them later.
Back to the blessing of age when answering the final question of the day: was my reaction justified? Hell yes. You see, here’s the thing…years ago, I would have reconfigured my whole routine to accommodate this man’s preference. He was a catch! Smart…(still ignant though)…handsome…religious…six-figured up, with the potential to earn more after he retired at 40 and took on another career…well-traveled…my God in shape!….hairline intact… Who wouldn’t want him? I would have put every wig, weave, and whatnot into my online store, or just given them away and figured it out. But today’s Lauren realizes that although there are some places for compromise, extensions work for my lifestyle, they make me happy, and they free up my time for other things I value. FOR ME, maintaining my own 30-inch, fine, dense hair and appearing like I want to present myself everyday CANNOT happen if I manipulate my hair daily, unless I want to have no hair to present. Maintaining the health of my hair and my lifestyle are non-negotiables for me. And I can stand firm on that “missed opportunity” knowing that. (Of course, realizing he was a closet colorist made that decision much easier too.) Dating is all about determining what are non-negotiables for you. For every man under the mistaken belief that Black women are lacking if they wear weave or makeup, there is another man that will love those parts of you. There are men that love that they can get a different woman every week depending on what hair she chooses to wear. (Quiet as it’s kept, I’ve got a friend who’s husbae get’s off on helping her choose her wig of the week. This man even has favorites that he requests!) There will be men that ignorantly desire women that meet a more European phenotype. Don’t take their ignorance personally; they don’t hate you, they hate themselves, and we each have our own ignorance to eradicate. As long as YOU know your history, your lifestyle, and your concretes vs. your compromises, stand on that.
So, what’s the golden nugget takeaway? Well…This post offers no answers…only points to ponder. Natural Hair has ruined my dating life in a sense that it has become a lightning rod of charged reactions between the already volatile interactions between Black men and women. In a day where online dating is normal, many things must be addressed that would have normally already been vetted in a traditional meet-you-first-in-real life situation. What do I mean? Well, my previous relationships generally started from friendships, and in those cases, he already knew that I was an extensions girl. Also, culturally, most Black men already expect that Black women wear extensions; their frequency and level of believability will differ with the woman, but it’s just understood. And finally, with the expansive quality and access to unclockable extensions, (I mean hell, everybody and they momma sells extensions now), is it necessary to “warn” men, or whoever you’re dating, that what may look like God’s gift really came from Brazil?
I don’t know. The more of this blog you read you will find there is not much that I know. But you can rest assured that whoever God deems for me will love me, weave and all, and won’t make me apologize for making my own decisions. All that will concern him?...How good I look on his arm, and how good I am to his heart. “*Flips hair*
Oh, and if you’re curious about which pictures are my hair and which are not, columns 1 and 3 are all mine, columns 2 and 4 are not. How’d you do???
And in case you were wondering, he called me many times after that catastrophe. To apologize? Maybe...I wouldn’t know. At this point, my weave and I are no longer interested.
