A little over three months ago, my friend Diamond, her friend, and I showed up to audition at a strip club in Florida. I was a nervous wreck ― the promoter made it clear that girls who did not “look up to par” would be sent home immediately. Looking up to par meant that our nails, hair, and makeup were done, our underarms and bikini areas were waxed, and we were each wearing an alluring two-piece.
When we got to the backroom, my anxiety dissipated as I looked in the mirror. I saw a beautiful Black woman staring back at me. I put on a red two-piece, fluffed out my Afro, reapplied my lip gloss, and waited for my turn to audition.
The dancing manager, a woman I later knew to be Cheryl, told me to stand up against the wall and she took photos of me from different angles. When she was finished, she told me that she would let me know what the boss thought.
Not long after, Cheryl pulled me aside and told me, “I’m sorry, but the boss says you cannot dance tonight because your hair is not done.”
“What?! My hair is done!” I said.
“The boss didn’t like it. You can come back when it’s done,” she said.
My heart sank to my stomach. I was confused. This was a Black-owned club. If I should be accepted anywhere with my Afro, it should be here.
I looked around me and noticed that all of the other Black girls had their hair straightened, in long braids, or wore wigs and that the only women with their natural hair out were those who had a loose curl pattern, 1a-3b.
“I drove with my friends. I’m an hour away from home ― I guess I could try and change my hair?” I stammered.
A couple of years ago, I straightened my hair at a Dominican salon in the Bronx. The stylist mixed the perm solution with the conditioner, which resulted in my hair falling out when I washed it a week later. Since growing it back out, I have tended to my hair like a garden: I gently rake it beginning at the top and then making my way down to the roots. During that experience, I came to…