Growing up, there were three things in our household that were cornerstones of everyday life: faith, music, and hair. And if you can think of almost any popular hairstyle from the late '80s and '90s, I've had it. (Well, except the Jheri Curl. My mother wasn't a fan.)
Hip-hop soul and R&B dominated the latter decade. Both were the soundtrack for my life—and hair evolution—at a time when I felt like the ugliest duckling on Earth. I was constantly in a state of rebellion, and my hair was the pièce de résistance.
At 13, I was five foot seven (taller than most of the boys in my classes), battling acne, and extremely lanky. I found solace in the control I had over my hair, which I changed at least three times a month. My style transitions were manic and frequent: from long bobs with eye-covering swoops à la Aaliyah to the creatively coiffed braids of Brandy Norwood.
By ninth grade, I couldn't have felt more awkward and uncool. I had to do something. My stepfather, a popular local DJ at the time, would bring home all sorts of new albums. I'd listen to Toni Braxton's self-titled one as if I were a lovesick woman in my 20s. I loved how confident and alluring she was with her deep contralto and blunt-bang cut. And Monica, a singer whose first platinum-selling album was titled Miss Thang, gave validation to my inexplicable mood changes and total disdain for, well, everything about myself. Its debut also validated the unlimited exposure I had to albums with themes my mother deemed too mature and "fast." ("But she's 14, Mom—we're around the same age—and she's long-legged and beautiful. And Dad bought it for me," I'd say in defiance.)
The Toni Braxton/Monica cut empowered me, but it really threw my mother for a loop. She and my grandmother prided themselves on "training" my hair, thick and curly, to be as long, silky, and luscious as possible. Hair in my family was a big deal, and the longer and thicker you could grow it, the more you could gloat during the local pageants, ballet recitals, church-choir solos, and debutante balls. Even the men would weigh in: "Don't ever cut your hair. It's your glory," an uncle would tell me.
Many other hip-hop soul and R&B artists of the moment were sporting short hair at the time, and they were all were my favorites: Zhané, T-Boz from TLC, Nicci Gilbert of Brownstone, Adina Howard.
All of my friends' mothers were like mine in regard to hairstyle (and music) choices: The more demure (i.e. furthest from "street"), the better. So when I snuck and asked my cousin—a Brooklyn-savvy, Southern-bred hairstylist and Fly Girl (remember In Living Color?) — to cut my hair, she obliged, much to my mother's disapproval. (Note: When a usually calm, even-keeled, superspiritual Leo goes off, it's pretty scary.)
"How dare you cut all that beautiful hair we worked hard to grow?" she said. "I will not be paying for weaves, fake ponytails, or extensions for when you suddenly want to go back long again! Do you know how many girls would kill for your hair?' "
I wanted freedom. The trained Southern debutante in me wanted to roll my eyes, wear baggy Girbaud jeans (just Google it), and sit with my legs uncrossed. And I really didn't see what the big deal was. My mother, aunts, great-aunts, and granny all had a variation of the same tapered cut for decades. Whether inspired by singers Nancy Wilson (my granny's day), Aretha Franklin (my aunts' day), or Anita Baker (my mother's day)—they were all influenced by the fab, empowered singers of their time.
Watch: Why Haircuts Instantly Upgrade Your Style:
This was my time. As BlackGirl, another '90s group I loved who sported short, edgy haircuts, sang: "I'm a '90s girl in an ice-cold world. Show me some respect." The compliments on the cut came pouring in, and I loved that I would stand out from the long press-and-curls or relaxed lobs in my high-school photos.
I was liberated from the long hours of washing, blow-drying, roller setting, and—most importantly—the nagging about how to keep my "good" hair in check. I became a bit more outspoken. I began arching my eyebrows and caught the eye of my first real long-term boyfriend (who sparked a corny yet cute conversation with me by starting with "Hey girl. That cut says a lot.")
Today, I'm still that sassy '90s girl with the short, tapered cut, which has since gone from Toni to Monica to Mary J. Blige to Kelis to Rihanna and back again. Hip-hop soul and R&B from the '90s brought me here, and I think it's where I'll stay—for now.
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