My Good Luck African Braiding Sangha

Almost always sooner rather than later, it is time to return to the salon. The process has its own sort of cadence. Weeks come and go, and when the moon has waxed and waned at least twice over, and the crown of my head becomes newly visible and increasingly itchy, I know the time is at hand. This, I’ve come to believe, is its own sort of awakening.

In the quarter-century I’ve been alive, spanning cities as well as decades, I have passed through too many African braiding hair salons to name. If I expand the definition of “salon” beyond more professional beauty establishments, I can also include the multiple living rooms to which my mother took me as a child, wherein a stylist plopped me in front of her TV and began a detangling process in earnest. More often than not, there was a kid or three—my age or younger—running around their feet, providing only minimal interference.

While I don’t remember ever shedding a tear or putting up much of a fight in the chair, I have often been referred to by my braiders as being “tender-headed.” This phrase has been used commonly in Black American as well as African cultures, with much work having been done in contemporary times to unpack the connotations of labeling little Black children “tender-headed,” or as being overly sensitive to genuine pain and discomfort.

However, I am less interested in litigating the pain of braiding than I am in the nature of pain itself and what it means to meet pain with a steady gaze. I have engaged in some kind of formal meditation practice for years now, having been drawn into Buddhist teachings through an intimacy with vipassana meditation as well as zazen. My spiritual traditions are ultimately syncretic in nature and, up to this point, have included the Evangelical teachings of my youth, an interest in the Indigenous practices of the Yoruba tribe from which I originate, and a persistent affinity for Zen Buddhism and insight meditation. Across all of these different traditions, one has to be willing to see things as they really are, which, in our contemporary secular culture, often entails the openness and ingenuity to see things as they could be.

Frequently, it is the complete removal of one’s hair that shows up in spiritual practice, often called tonsure. In many Buddhist traditions, tonsure goes hand-in-hand with the idea of renunciation, of releasing the trappings of craving that ultimately lead to dissatisfaction. The first and last time I shaved my head, I was a sophomore in college, and had done so in a large part to demonstrate to my Nigerian parents that I could exercise bodily autonomy, express my individuality, and engage in the kind of genderqueer irreverence that for so long had appeared to be the sole proprietary of my white American peers. It was besides the point that I hated the look: The most important moment was seeing a mound of dark locs on the floor of my friend’s apartment and understanding that this was a thing I could just do; any argument to the contrary was yet another illusion.

Now, a little older and supposedly wiser, I am still intrigued by the meaning embedded in our various hair rituals, both religious and secular. It’s hard to meet a Black woman or femme who doesn’t have some complicated relationship with their natural hair. Many undergo “the big chop,” as it is colloquially referred to, in pursuit of some fresh start or another. Committing to the care and maintenance of one’s curls in a culture whose dominant messaging reinforces the idea of “good” hair (hair that is essentially as close in proximity to whiteness as possible) is not only some radical assertion of the right to self-expression but a practice rooted in the pursuit of self-honesty, self-understanding. Having grown out my hair in the intervening years and gotten it done several times over, every time I walk into a salon and place myself at the mercy of the stationed braider, I find myself in the same realm of surrender as I might when engaged in walking meditation, settling down on a floor pillow in pursuit of mindful breathing, or actively practicing loving-kindness.

Every time I walk into a salon and place myself at the mercy of the stationed braider, I find myself in the same realm of surrender as I might when engaged in walking meditation, settling down on a floor pillow in pursuit of mindful breathing, or actively practicing loving-kindness.

Yoruba religious tradition refers frequently to the ori, which one could consider the spirit, or the seat of the soul, that which resides at the top of one’s head. Much of devotees’ time is dedicated to the maintenance of a cool and clear ori, which, as what bridges our mortal bodies and our divine nature, is essential to keep in good shape. In addition to the more metaphysical avenues of prayer and meditation, the ori is often remediated through physical means, such as wearing a cold towel on one’s forehead in the morning. Caring for my hair feels like a natural extension of this work, as a recognition that energy often proceeds from the top down; if you can get your head right, by whatever means, the body can follow in the process of awakening.

As the stylist shampoos, detangles, deep-conditions, blow-dries, moisturizes, and begins to part my scalp, it’s not difficult to imagine the accumulated anxieties and irritations of the past eight or so weeks washing down the drain in addition to the more overt dirt and oil. Especially if I had had braids in before, the process of taking them out to begin the process anew resembles a necessary energetic shedding, comparable to what it had felt like to shave my head all those years before. Now, as the stylist begins partitioning my hair, adding additional strands, and braiding each section up or down to the root, I am encouraged to consider what I might want to take in through the intricate weaving process. I reflect on Buddhist mudras, hand signs, and what the braider might be transmitting to me, knowingly or otherwise, in their own deliberate gestures. The power of our hands, particularly in one laying hands on another, is evident across a variety of spiritual modalities. Braiders are alchemists in their own right, enjoining their life energy with yours in a complex and difficult process resulting in a stunning protective talisman.

Braiding one’s hair is first and foremost an exercise in endurance, with more styles than not requiring one to set aside an entire day, eight or more hours, to dedicate to the procedure. When I sit down in the chair, much like in more formal meditation practices, any experience of boredom or discomfort is besides the point when it comes to the task at hand. It is almost impossible, then, as a fledgling Buddhist, not to think of leaning even closer into the uncomfortable sensations. If the idea of renunciation is rooted in the necessity of giving up unnecessary barriers between oneself and reality, I might argue that reclaiming a moniker like“tender-headed” is its own kind of semiregular ceremony—a date with pain. After all, just because it hurts—and will continue to hurt, it seems, for all my days, for as long as I decide to get it braided—doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. To suffer is its own kind of choice; to accept the agony (for it can be agonizing) is another, and one that lends itself to deeper presence, and even pleasure in having borne the pain. If I admire myself in the mirror after the fact, I’d like to do so meditating on the idea of the lotus that emerges from mud (or perhaps the rose that grew from concrete) in entertaining the notion that beauty does not occur in spite of the suffering inherent to life, but as two strands intertwined, drawn taut.

Another aspect of the braiding ritual lies in the place itself. Especially in my experience of growing up in majority-white neighborhoods and going to schools where I could count on being maybe one of two Black kids in any given classroom, my experiences of being in braiding salons are some of the only times in which I am surrounded by other Black women, let alone multiple generations of such. Furthermore, anyone in Black immigrant communities can tell you that braiding salons represent one of the few entrepreneurial domains unambiguously welcome and accessible to African women in the States. I reflect fondly on the industry, camaraderie, and creativity such spaces represent. It is not an uncommon occurrence to have two women working on my hair at once to hasten the process, chatting in French or native dialects all the while. 

Looking back, I feel safe in these spaces in a way that remains difficult to experience or recreate after leaving the chair. Most of the braiders I go to would not have received formal training at a school or academy; more often than not, it was their mothers, sisters, and aunties who taught them how to do hair—a lineage rooted in family and direct transmission. In this way, the work completed in African braiding salons is inextricable from a community of those who understand you (even if they secretly think you’re a bit of a baby for flinching), are interested in your personal growth, and wish the best for you and for one another. I may be useless when it comes to braiding my own hair, but by shining a light on their work and recognizing the worth of their labor, I hope to be able to pay this honor back in turn.

What differentiates ritual from repetitiveness is little more than attention, or devotion. If we are willing to look deeper into the mundane activities of everyday life, what reveals itself is the spiritual nature inherent to all things. What Zen Buddhism offers is the idea that enlightenment can and ought to be grasped in any and every given moment, wherever one gets to meet directly with reality. In this way, at some point, as with all things in this lifetime, the purpose of getting my hair done is simply just to get my hair done. I practice gratitude for the “shear” weight of the opportunity to do so.