David Christopher Orrell

America has a history rooted in racism for which Black hair has always been a target, thus shaping the Black American culture of today. Take, for example, the Pencil Test, a practice that took place in the U.S. during chattel slavery and in South Africa during apartheid. The test consisted of a pencil being poked through the hair of a Black student; if the pencil stuck you were the "wrong" kind of Black, but if the pencil fell out that meant you were “passable." This was a filter system meant to keep dark-skinned students with kinky hair from participating in school activities, events, and in some cases, the curriculum altogether. This is just one of the many ways America’s history with racism has shaped how we view Black hair and its many shades and textures today. Black Americans have a unique experience when compared to any other group of American citizens. Although most immigrants traveled to America in the pursuit of happiness or even refuge, bringing along with them, their culture and heritage: Black Americans, however, were bound and stripped of their identities before being brought to America in chains. Even after gaining their freedom, a new generation of Black Americans were given very little means to reconnect with their roots or even navigate the social economy of the only country they ever known as home. To understand how we got here, one must first understand the origins of Black hair. 

How often when we talk about getting back to our roots, are we referring to the first chop? Throughout many generations and many cultures in Africa, hair was originally seen as a way to identify particular members and groups within African societies. Hair for some represented spiritual devotion, as “the hair is the most elevated point of your body, which means it is closest to the divine,” Mohammed Mbodj, associate professor of history at Columbia University, and Senegalese native explains. Hairdressers were esteemed members of society; used for more than just grooming, hairdressers were often the pillars of many societal rituals and ceremonies. The process of braiding and twisting was seen as a sacred and communal activity, for it provided an opportunity for the passing down of oral history and tradition as well as important governing information amongst the ruling class. 

In my personal growth as an artist and a Black man in America, I often find myself learning about things I feel as though I should've known. When I focused my work on Black hair, the subject matter became a path to questions like, "Why am I here?" and "Where do I come from?" This informed my creative direction with the project. As stated before, I knew I wanted to share all the reasons why Black hair wasn't just hair but also highlight the cultural significance behind how we express ourselves through how we look and how that has evolved. I believe there's a phenomenon that occurs when Black Americans, whether through social media, TV, or in person, realize there are near identical sayings, practices, and objects that connect us through our family ties; a feeling I can only describe as finding a long lost cousin. For example, how every Black grandmother keeps candy in her purse as if exclusively for her grandchildren; or superstitions like refraining from doing laundry on New Year's Day; or the very existence of soul food, which is a byproduct of the scraps our enslaved ancestors were served, by their oppressors. I call this a phenomenon because the feeling experienced during this realization is sudden, and that feeling is a mixture of belonging and joy. However, the feeling is fleeting and hard to grasp for longer than that moment. I believe that's because of how, as a people, we've been systematically fractured; creating blindspots in our history and culture that later generations are left to rediscover on their own. A result of Black Americans being policed from how we look to how we come together. For me, there's a sense of joy and pride that comes with seeing past those blindspots and learning that we, as Black Americans, have a culture that is rooted in our very existence-- in our lineage.

 In my pursuit to document Black creatives and entrepreneurs working within the hair industry, something they all had in common was that they all felt as though the act of working with hair was sacred; their years of routine seemed almost ritualistic as they prepped their stations and made their motions as they begin to work. As they shared their stories and experience working with Black hair in their fields, I learned that Mr. Lee, a barber who has cut three generations of my family’s hair, from my grandfather to my dad  to me, has been cutting hair his whole life. He started working in his father's shop at 14 years old in Atlanta, Georgia, during the 1960s and now owns his own shop called Lee’s Barbershop in East Orange, NJ, where he also met his late wife of 20 years. Gary, who is originally from Jamaica, moved to America in pursuit of the American dream. With his Barbershop, Gary not only became a master barber in his community, but he was also able to provide for his family. Jazz, on the other hand, has been braiding hair for as long as she can remember. Her artistry speaks for itself, as all the braided work present on this page was done by her hands. Lastly, Adebunmi's work is an act of self-preservation. Using organic materials like hair donated by family, friends, and strangers who believe in her art; or soil cultivated from the land her ancestors once toiled under oppression, Bunmi creates a carbon record of our people's existence and experiences.