Hair texture is almost as volatile an issue among Black people as skin color. Indeed, rightly or wrongly, the "grade" of hair one has and that person's skin color is very much tied together in most Black people's minds.

The African American folk belief which may be genetically true is that unless you have some "Indian blood", the lighter a "Black" person's skin is, the more White ancestry that person has and the more likely that person's hair will be naturally straight or at least naturally wavy and not naturally tightly curled [which is the 'politically currect' way of saying "nappy".]

For many Black woman the term "bad hair day" means more than it means for non Black people. For us, the definition of "good hair" has been and in continues to be "hair like white people", meaning naturally straight hair, or certain types of wavy hair."Bad hair" means hair like most Black people have. Most Black women wear their hair straighted, or [chemically] "relaxed", or {and this is largerly in the olden days}, straightened with a comb heated on the stove. And many Black woman add 'extentions' of purchased fake hair or purchased human hair to lengthen their own straightened hair. However, other Black women, such as myself, prefer to wear our hair naturally, without using any chemical relaxers or hot combs on our hair. Some like me, wear our hair in one of many afro styles, some more closely cropped than others. Other Black women chose to wear locks {dreadlocks}, or "cornbraid" their hair. Like many other women from the African Diaspora who wear their hair in a natural style, I consider this more than a hairstyle-I consider it to be a role modeling statement of acceptance and celebration of one's self.
And I believe that it was no coincidence that James Brown rid himself of his [chemically] processed hair to record the song "Say it Loud. I'm Black And I'm Proud."

See this excerpt of one of many online articles on this subject:

"The question arrives like a missile from the back seat of my car.

I am driving and my 6-year-old daughter, Brooke, has just asked why her hair isn't real.

In my rearview mirror, I see her pixie face framed by wild strands of hair that just won't stay confined. It springs joyfully from the pigtails that I so neatly combed. I know where she is headed, but I have to ask. "What is real hair?"

"You know, like Rachel's," she answers. Rachel is our white baby sitter. What Brooke is really asking me is why her black hair texture is different. She wants hair that flings like Rachel's, not the type that springs from tightly woven braids.

Her hair journey has begun, just as it did several years ago for my oldest daughter, Nya, and for myself many decades ago.

The mother-daughter dance over hair for any culture is tricky. It's a mother's way to pass judgment and a daughter's way to rebel. It's a sign of independence and self-identity. Hair announces to the world who we are.

But for little black girls, that dance becomes more complicated. Hair is a daughter's entry point into racial differences and America's standard of beauty. It's a mother's chance to instill strong roots, if you will, to help those daughters stand proud.

"I'm very guarded," says Donna Jenkins, 42, the mother of two daughters, Johari, 7, and Jamila, 10. Both girls have long hair that Jenkins has braided or flat-ironed for easy styling. She wears her own hair pulled back tightly into a bun.

Her daughters are often complimented on their hair, an issue that Jenkins says she quickly puts into perspective for them.

"My sister and I, we grew up like Jamila and Johari. One of us is darker and the other lighter, except I had short hair and my sister had long hair. When people would meet us, the first thing they would say about my sister is, `Oh, she has such pretty hair.' And I would sit there and think, `My hair is not pretty.' So I've been quick to correct someone on a compliment," she says. "It's not good or bad hair. It's just how our genetics came out."

I grew up with a slew of cousins with "good" hair, the kind that they could wash and go. I remember believing my hair was "good," too, even though it was different. Maybe it was a gift from my mother, who just always stood proud. Maybe it's a gift from a fair-skinned aunt who always called me "the pretty little brown one."

-snip-

Click http://www.rep-am.com/story.php?id=4728&p=0
for the entire article.