Traveling With An Afro

Many years ago, I decided to cut my hair into an Afro. For a long time, I had worn my hair in braids and then I straightened my hair and finally, I decided to go natural and wear an Afro. I absolutely loved it. I felt that it captured my personality. Both of my parents were worried about me sporting an Afro because they had lived in the 60s with the civil rights movement, discrimination, and of course, segregation. They were afraid how their daughter would be treated with an Afro. I reassured them not to worry that I will be treated just fine.

But I definitely had different experiences with an Afro than I did when I was wearing braids or when I had straightened my hair. I remember one time going through airport security. I went through the big scanner where they make you put your hands up above your head and not breathe and then they slide the door really quickly to scan your body. It showed that I was wearing some metal.

Oh shoot! I thought, I forgot to take my rings off.

So, as soon as I got out of the machine, I said, “I’m sorry; I forgot to take my rings off. Here are my rings.”

The security person said, “OK, but we have to pat you down.”

He proceeded to pat me down and then when he couldn’t find any metal, he proceeded to pat my hair down, as if there were dangerous weapons hiding in my hair. That was the first time I ever received a hair pat down at the airport. I don’t think my Caucasian friends had ever had their hair patted down going through airport security. And this was definitely a first for me.

I didn’t think much of it and then I went to my gate. At my gate, I carried a carry-on bag. I checked my other bag. In my carry-on bag, I had a hair pick for my Afro.

The man looked at it and he said, “What is this?”

I said, “Oh, that’s my hair pick!”

I smiled happily.

He said, “You can’t take this on board.”

I said, “Why not?”

He said, “Because it could be used as a weapon.”

This occurred after 9/11 when security had been amplified. I was very disappointed. I shook my head and I said, “OK, I understand. Can you at least send it to me? it’s really hard to find a good hair pick. And that’s the best I’ve ever been able to find.”

It was a metal hair pick. Not a plastic hair pick and it really could stretch my hair out and take out the tangles unlike a plastic hair pick.

“No,” he said.

I was so disappointed. They tossed it in the garbage. I was never able to find a hair pick like that again. It was a professional grade hair pick, the kind that hairstylists use. Not the kind with long metal spikes, but short ones. It was perfect.

I could understand security measures. I could understand safety first. But the thought of throwing away a perfectly good hair pick that would never be used again? That I couldn’t understand. Did they really think I was going to hold someone hostage by hair pick?

It’s true, I was never treated poorly when I had an Afro, but I was treated differently. In San Francisco, I was treated like I was so cool, especially by all the peace-loving hippies and those who saw me as a modern day Angela Davis, but in the airport, I was considered suspicious.

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