** trigger warning: this piece mentions eating disorders and sensitive topics surrounding body image**
For far too long discussions about eating disorders have been attributed to the struggles of, predominantly, young white women. Little to no attention has been paid to the body image issues facing Black women of all ages especially in the era of plastic surgery and social media. As a community, we are still novices at spotting, naming and having open conversations about the way Black women are forced to fit into certain body types to be deemed attractive or desirable. This deafening silence has led many of our most beautiful women to go to extreme measures to fix their perceived flaws. However, it's not just as simple as not liking our bodies or needing to increase our love of self, it actually goes a bit deeper for many women.
It can be categorized as body dysmorphic disorder.
By definition, body dysmorphic disorder is a mental health disorder in which you can't stop thinking about one or more perceived defects or flaws in your appearance — a flaw that appears minor or can't be seen by others. To put it plainly, you can't see your own beauty, worth or value because your mind is making you focus on things that you feel make you less than. There is no doubt that social media and the idea of what a Black woman should look like or how her body should be shaped is exacerbating this disorder for many of us.
The American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery reports that cosmetic augmentation has risen more than 56 percent in Black people over the last decade. As Black people account for only 12 percent of the population, we are making up over 8 percent of the plastic surgeries in the US.
So, what does that mean for the vast amount of Black women who cannot afford to go under the knife?
It means general discontent with their bodies. Unhealthy diet fads, painful "waist trainers", botched and, sometimes, fatal shortcuts to achieving that hourglass shape that has been reproduced and sold back to us by non-Black women all over the media. For some women, it means an increase in anxiety and depressive episodes because of the idealistic view that having the perfect body means attracting the perfect partner, career and/or life. Nothing about their bodies seems good enough to measure up to the flawless image of womanhood being presented to them without, at times, transparency on what it actually took to achieve. It means Black womanhood, yet again, being equated to unfair and, for many, unachievable standards.
It means hearing Black men telling Black women to "tighten up" because non-Black women "have ass now" as if that is what gives us our magic. It means young Black girls not giving their bodies the opportunity to fully develop without fantasizing about changing it---and when that change is unavailable to them, they learn to hate their bodies long before they see the wonder of what it can do.
Of course, Black women should be able to do whatever they want with their bodies. At any time. At any cost. And not every Black woman who has plastic surgery is suffering from body dysmorphic disorder. To assert that would deny the myriad of reasons why a woman may decide to alter her body. And, yes, some of those reasons may simply be for her own satisfaction. That is perfectly fine. But, when we are seeing the same body shapes recycled time and time again, something deeper is at work. When we are seeing the same facial structures being applied to faces that were much more interesting, intriguing and unique beforehand---it is not just a matter of personal pleasure anymore. It is a matter of messaging. Of feeling that the only way to be beautiful is to mimic something we are being told makes it so.
The stunning thing about Black womanhood has always been the many forms it can take. Small, big, curvy, petite, thin, fat, short, tall, all the ass, none of the ass, wide nose, button nose, long legs, short legs, 1A-4C hair. Oh, the majesty of Black women! So what happens if we all decide to look one way now? What happens if the people we once looked to as representation start to chip away at the things that were our reflection?
What becomes of our magic then?
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Today, that movement has turned into a wig uprising where Black women are able to experiment with colors, styles, and more without causing irreparable damage to our hair. It could even be said that we’ve arrived at a new level of acceptance: one that does not equate love of oneself to one’s willingness or lack thereof to wear her hair the way others deem acceptable. Not even other people who look like us.
However, as with Blackness itself, the issue of Black women’s hair is layered.
On the surface, it’s nothing more than a matter of personal preference. However, in a deeper dive, issues of texture, curl pattern, and of course, proximity to social acceptance, as well as other runoff streams from the waters of racism and patriarchy, rear their heads. The natural hair movement, though a wide-reaching and liberating community builder, also gave way to colorism and often upheld mainstream beauty standards.
Sometimes, favoring lighter-skinned influencers/creators with very specific hair textures, the white gaze leaked into our safe space and forced us to reckon with it. Accurate representations of natural hair in various states of being—undefined curls, kinks, and unlaid edges—are still absent from brand marketing. Protective styles, though intended to provide breaks from styling for our sensitive hair, have become a mask to help our hair be more palatable. A figurative straddle of the fence in order to appease the comfort of others in the face of our hair’s power.
And then there’s the issue of length.
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As a woman who has spent much of the last decade voluntarily wearing her hair in many variations of short hairstyles, from a pixie cut to a curly fro and a sleek bob, what I’ve gleaned throughout the years is that there is a glaring difference between how I am treated when wearing my hair short than when I opt for weaves, extensions or even grow it out slightly longer than my chin.
The differential treatment comes from women and men alike and spans professional and personal settings, including friends, coworkers, and industry peers.
What has become abundantly clear is that long hair is often conflated with beauty, softness, and any number of other words we relate to femininity in a way that short hair is not. That perceived marker of the essence of womanhood shows up in how I am received, communicated with, and complimented.
Even more so than texture, length has a way of deciding who among us is deserving of our attention, affection, and adoration. Whether naturally grown or proudly bought, the commentary around someone’s look or image greatly shifts when “inches” are present.
When it comes to long hair, we really, really do care.
In an effort to understand whether I had simply been misinterpreting the energy around my hair, I decided to take my findings to social media. I began with two side-by-side photos of myself. In both pictures, my hair is straightened; however, in one, I am wearing my signature pixie cut, and in the other, I am wearing extensions.
I posited that treatment based on hair length is a real thing, and what followed was confirmation that I was not alone in my feelings. “Long hair, like light skin, button noses, and being thin are all forms of social capital,” one user commented. “Some Black women enforce the status quo too, why wouldn’t we?”
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This also brought to mind the many times celebrity women (like most recently Beyoncé's Cécred hair tutorial) have done big reveals of their own natural tresses in an attempt to silence any doubt that Black women are able to grow their hair beyond a certain length. Of course, we all know that to be true, so why do we still feel the need to prove it so?
The responses continued to pour in from women of all skin tones, who felt that hair length played a role in people’s treatment of them. “When I have short hair I always feel like people don’t treat me like a woman, they treat me like a kid,” another user commented. “When my hair is long I get a lot more respect for some reason.”
From revelations about feeling invisible to admitted shifts in their own perceived beauty, Black woman after Black woman poured out her experience as it relates to hair length. Though affirmed by their shared realities, knowing that reactions to something so trivial have become yet another hair battle for Black women to fight was disheartening. Though we continue to defy gravity and push the bounds of imagination and creativity by way of our strands, will it always be in response to the idea that we are, somehow, falling short?
Unlike more obvious instances of hair discrimination, the glorification of longer length is sneakier in its connection to Eurocentric beauty standards. Hair commercials, beauty ads, and even hip-hop music have long celebrated the idea of gloriously long tresses while holding onto the ignorant notion that it is inaccessible for Black women.
Even as we continue to fight to prove our hair professional, elegant, and worthy in its natural state to the world at large, we’ve also adopted harmful value markers of our own as a community. It’s evident in how we talk about who has the right to start a haircare line and which influencers we easily platform. It’s evident in the language we use to identify those with long hair versus short hair. And it’s painfully obvious in how we treat one another.
It makes me wonder if India.Arie’s brave rallying cry, almost two decades old in its existence, will ever actually hold true for us. Or will we just continue to invent new ways to uphold the harmful status quo?
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Feature image by Willie B. Thomas/ Getty Images
