Race Rage Gape

1.

"I love having her around, but seeing bits of her hair in the shower is unbearable! I want her to stay, but I just can't stand it. It's... gross."

Faced with a dilemma seemingly so minor, Viera didn't have time to mull over her decision because her black tenant overheard the conversation and immediately felt unwanted. She eventually left. No amount of apologising and pseudo acceptance could glue that relationship back together. It was Humpty-Dumpty. Gone.

I was disgusted with Viera and I let it be known, with the kindest words possible, of course. No use fueling an awkward storm, but we had to talk about it. 

She doesn't hate black people, nor did she expect her own visceral reaction to seeing all the little coily black strands of hair in the shower she shared with her black acquaintance. 

In her words, it wasn't that the hair was from a black person as much as it was a foreign sight. One that she could not stomach. She felt like her senses were invaded in an unholy way. 

"Racist!"

I went on to claim. Internalised racism. You find your own hair to be the standard and therefore find everything else ugly and vomit-inducing.

These were not only my thoughts, but some vocalised mutterings too.

It caused discomfort for all involved and it made me cry to think that my own friend found my hair disgusting. I was shaken and refused to believe that she didn't mean any harm. 

"You find your own hair to be the standard of beauty." 

Those words rang in my head and I went through the next few days feeling righteously indignant. I started noticing my hair and often wondered if any other white lady was eying me with disgust at my woolen coil crown. After all, black hair has been used to uglify black women globally. 

But my friend? MY friend? How deep is this prejudice? 

2.

While traveling, at a hotel in another continent, I came face to face with a spoonful of the poop I had been flinging. 

I got into what was meant to be a spotless shower and there it was. A strand of thick, straight jet-black hair. "Yikes! What is that? Urgh." All the expressions of disgust left my mouth at flying speed. It wasn't my first rodeo with shower hair, but there was something utterly gross about this encounter.

Rewind back to the early 2000s when I shared (reluctantly) a home with an untidy boy from Asia. He medically hated cleaning up after himself in the shower. The first time I encountered bhaiya's hair in the shower, I felt the call of my people rising through my body. I was transported to a plane of trances, as my body was unable to handle the disgust it was experiencing. 

Back to the future. 

I'm racist! I'm totally racist! I totally believe that my hair is the standard and boy was that instilled in me by my mom and aunties. 

I was horrified, but mostly in denial. 

I started to create reasonings that were anything but reasonable. Thoughts of how black people have to fight to be allowed to exist reared themselves, making me feel justified in activity that I recently couldn't accept from a friend. 

My first conscious encounter with white hair, in high school, was that of fascination. Michelle Smith's hair looked like my doll's. Of course I wanted to touch it, and... smell it. 

Terrible mistake. 

I started realising that white hair carries a scent. It took years for me to realise that different races carry a scent. This would naturally come through in hair too.

3.

Was my friend racist? I don't know. Was I racist in Asia? Pfftt. What do you want me to say? I'm ashamed, okay. There. 

All this race rage left a gaping hole in my conscience. 

Now I believe we should all carefully nitpick our stray hairs off the shower tiles. Or, you know, deal with the fact that we're different.