New Theory
Britty Johnson



“If you don’t have it, then you just don’t have it! You gotta get it from somewhere!”

My mother’s theory on hair always sounded ridiculous to me. She was a firm believer in wearing weaves; short, long, natural colored, crazy colored. You name it. When I came to her, at sixteen, with the desire to have a big, curly afro she pointed me in that direction. 

I’m not against weaves. My mother wore them for years and I always admired how beautiful she looked.  A few of my other female relatives and friends wore them too. They would spend loads of cash on hair and if they had enough money they would buy 100% human hair, which comes from India. It’s very expensive and shiny.  They even wore a variety of unnatural colors like reds, blues, and purples or sometimes an artistic combination of colors. It seemed to be something that was socially acceptable amongst black women, without hesitation.  

The thick, silky hair reached the middle of their backs. They’d comb, curl, flip, and wash it as if it were growing from their scalps. It got to the point where I knew very few black girls that wore their natural hair. I would take one look at the hair and know that it wasn’t real. 

I’ve always found it interesting where the hair came from. Indian men, women, and children donate their hair as an act of respect and love to their temple. It’s ironic how getting rid of their hair holds meaning in their culture, while black women use that same hair to achieve some type of dream look. Most of them probably don’t know where the hair comes from and they could probably care less about the Hindu ritual. 

At sixteen, I wore a neat bob cut with streaks of honey blonde peeking through each dark brown strand. The hairstyle graced the bottom of my chin, which my mom said complimented my small, heart-shaped face. She didn’t hesitate to act on me wanting a new look.  She bought a couple of thick, curly hair pieces and glued them to a stocking cap with that stinky weave glue. 

After hours of sitting in front of her own our itchy living room floor, the newly made wig stopped right above my shoulders. It was thick and perfect. She even made it so the wig had the streaks of blonde that I had in my real hair.

“It looks beautiful, Britt.” She passed me her old, handheld mirror.

 I stared back at my reflection, gently fluffing the curly afro. I felt like a whole new person. I found myself accepting the fact that even though my real hair was not thick and curly, I could still achieve the look with the help of weave. 

I fluffed the hair throughout the day at school that Monday. It became something that I’d do every few minutes like some sort of weird reflex. I adjusted the giant, navy blue bow that I tied around it to spice up the look. Several people gave me compliments. I even complimented myself whenever I looked into my small, purple handheld mirror, batting my eyelashes and grinning at my new hairdo. I felt beautiful, like the black girls you see in urban fashion magazines sporting giant curly afros and a fresh natural face. 

I noticed a few other black girls wearing weaves walking through the halls, with boys at their feet. I knew they were weaves because of their shiny, incredible length. I had developed a sort of weave detector. Along with the length, I knew by the way they ran their fingers through it every five minutes, much in the same way I fluffed my curls. They batted their eyelashes and winked, as a sign that they knew that I was wearing a weave too. I responded in a slew of winks and smiles with just about every black girl that walked the halls, as it appeared to be some type of girl hair code that was new to me. 

The school day was ending and my friend, Raven, and I was heading out of our studio art class. I always loved having that class at the end of the day. What better way to end your day then painting for an hour? 

“We’re still playing tennis, right?” She asked, her thick hair pulled up into a tight bun.

She was holding a Wilson tennis racquet and a small, purple mesh bag down by her side. I could see the neon tennis balls inside and smell that “new tennis ball” smell seeping through the bag. 

“Yeah, totally. I was actually on my way to the locker room to change”

Although tennis season was over, the team loved playing after school anyway. It had become a routine and it wouldn’t feel right if we didn’t play. Me and Raven played tennis every afternoon for hours. The rush of the sport excited us and our life-long, giggly friendship made it more fun. We’ve known each other since Kindergarten and if there is one thing our friendship taught me, it’s that it’s okay to laugh at myself. 

We pushed open the door to the brightly lit locker room and that stinky, year round, foot odor brushed against our faces. The locker room stench was so familiar that we never even acknowledged it. We put our over-stuffed tennis bags on the wooden benches and started pulling out our spare clothes. 

“I forgot to tell you earlier, I like your hair!” She said, lifting her T-shirt over her head.

“Thanks!”

I quickly stepped out of my jeans and my favorite red and black plaid button up and into my workout clothes. We got dressed hurriedly, as if we were secretly racing.

We ran to the tennis court, which was wedged in between the school’s football and baseball fields. It was a perfect day for tennis, sixty nine degrees outside and the wind blowing every few minutes. We did our stretches and laps around the court out of habit and started to play for practice. Time always seemed to fly past when playing tennis, so before we knew it, our bodies were dampened with sweat from running back and forth after the small, neon ball. 

People always called us Venus and Serena. I feel like it had nothing to with how amazing our tennis skills were, but rather the fact that we were the only two black girls on the Varsity team. Either way, we took the compliment and ran with it. 

A few guys from the boy’s team were on the court next to us, Heera and Andrew. They were extremely competitive and such perfectionists. We could always hear them yell back and forth at each other across the court about whether the ball was in or out and whose serve was more “wicked” than whose. 

I raced to the left side of the court, to the right and back, attempting to return every practice shot Raven hit my way. My black and white sneakers patted across the forest green tennis court and made this sliding noise when I made a sudden change in movement. My heart raced along with my feet and I loved every minute of it. 

After a couple of swings we decided to take a break. We sat on the concrete along the fence and sipped at our water bottles. A subtle breeze brushed against the back of my sweaty neck.

“You girls tired already?” We heard a voice shout from across the court. 

It was Heera, with a half empty bottle of grape Powerade in one hand and his red tennis racquet in the other. I could see a ring of sweat around the collar of his grey T-shirt. Andrew laughed as he practiced his serve. I heard him curse under his breath and I assumed that the serve was no good. 

“Not even close, Heera!” Raven yelled, before taking another gulp of water. 

I checked my phone to see how long we had been playing. Forty five minutes. 

“I saw your serve, Raven. It was wicked. You’re getting good” Heera flirted. 

Raven let out a laugh as she stood up, smoothing out her black tennis skirt. 

“Ready to hit the court?” she asked me, disregarding Heera’s compliment. 

Raven and Heera were next door neighbors and they always flirted during practice. I told her that she should make a move, but she always laughed and brushed off my suggestion, much like she did his compliment. 

“I like your hair, Britty!” he yelled as he made his way back to their side of the court.

“Thanks!” I shouted back. 

Raven pulled me up from the ground letting me know our break was over.

We always used our first forty five minutes to warm up, and then after a quick break, we’d jump into a match. The game intensifies quickly and eventually we start to sound more ridiculous than Heera and Andrew. 

“Zero all, love all, first serve!” Raven yelled.

I bent my knees and hunched my back in preparation to receive her serve. 

The neon ball darted across the net and to the square in front of me. I quickly stretched my arm to return it. We swung back and forth, the ball popping against our racquets. Whenever I scored, she scored, and vice versa. I ran to the left side of the court and back, over and over as if controlled by a master puppeteer. 

My heart shouted, cheering me on as I returned each shot. Although this was just another afternoon of tennis with Raven and it didn’t really count towards anything, I was determined to win. 

Raven panted as she ran after the ball, her body was slouched over, and her Dutchtown High School T-shirt was drenched in sweat. Neither of us planned on giving up. 

“Go Venus!” Heera yelled. 

“Go Serena!” 

I had no clue which of the two was directed towards me, but I sprinted across the court, like I was competing for a title at the U.S Open. 

The spring wind brushed against my body and I could feel dried beads of sweat on my forehead. My hands ached from gripping the racquet so hard and I could feel small calluses forming on my palms. 

I darted to the net to deliver a shorter shot; it was the perfect opportunity to slam the ball. Hitting it as hard as I could, I was certain that Raven wouldn’t be able to return it. I lingered at the net to see the outcome of my shot. It landed right at Raven’s feet and she jumped back in just enough time to hit the ball back to my side of the court. 

Thrilled that she returned my hit, I quickly headed to the back of the court to return the shot, keeping my eye on the soaring ball. It was a backhand swing and perhaps one of the most beautiful shots I had ever seen. I was determined to get it. I slid my feet across the court as quickly as I could, so quick that my steps got jumbled and I found one of my feet tripping over the other. 

I plunged to the ground in what seemed at the time, like slow motion, the windy breeze gliding across my body. I felt a chill against my head and my eyes were instantly directed at my curly wig, which danced in the breeze, the navy blue ribbon still attached. 

I let out a shrill scream which felt like one of those slow motion screams in the movies that are always in a deeper voice than it really sounds.

I raced after the hair piece, and I saw Raven out the corner of my eye drop to the ground with laughter. 

“Holy shit!”  Heera shouted, Andrew stealing a shot and cheering himself on.  

Our match completely left my mind as I fumbled for the hair piece. I grabbed it and I quickly slapped it back on my head, which was covered in a stocking cap, tucking away my blonde and brown bob haircut. 

My mom’s ridiculous hair theory replayed in my head.

“If you don’t have it, then you just don’t have it! You gotta get it from somewhere!”

I pictured all of my female relatives and the flirty black girls that parade around my school, flipping their weaves and bragging about them like they were pets.

“If you don’t have it, then you just don’t have it! You gotta get it from somewhere!”

It was ridiculous. So ridiculous that I vowed to embrace my natural hair from that moment on. I swore to love what I have and to not let anyone tell me how to achieve my desired look. 

“If you don’t have it, then you gotta let it grow!” 

This was my new theory.

About the author:
Britty Johnson is a senior studying Mass Communications and Creative Writing at the University of West Georgia. She's taken classes in such genres as Non-Fiction, Poetry, and Screenwriting. She's been writing for years and has grown a true passion for Creative Writing.