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Ashley McMullen

You're listening to The Nocturnists: Black Voices in Healthcare. I'm Ashley McMullen. The story of my Black hair is the story of my life. Hours spent at my mom's feet, as she braided and plated and pulled and twisted my curls after a long day at work. Hours spent at salons in that intimate space where Black women are free to let their hair down and take respite from a world cannot handle their magic. I started straightening my hair in grade school, using chemicals to break it down, to will it into submission, into something acceptable, something more professional, something less Black.

I stopped. I traded the chemicals and flat irons for box braids, twist outs, and wash-and-gos. I love my hair. I love the culture that's represented in every curl. A culture that will not be broken, that will not be subdued and will not be erased. This week, we heard about your hair stories. So much love and care, alongside so much vulnerability and pain. Here it is, “Episode Four: Hair.”

Marla Abrolat

I didn't think much of my hair when I was a kid growing up. I mean, I have very vivid memories of it. I remember the steam, that burned feel as the hot iron sizzled the top of my ears, and the sound it made as it slid through the grease on my scalp–the same sound that was made by my mom that same morning cooking bacon. I remember, I remember the colors. I remember how orange my hair would turn in the Southern California summers from the chemicals in the swimming pool, while my friends' yellow tresses turned green. But I really was finally awakened, that I possess this gift on my head, in college. My boyfriend and I decided to take a trip down into Mexico, into Baja California. So my mom put my hair into the tightest cornrows that she could, my skin stretching, tearing, feeling like it's tearing from the seams, so it would stay. And we packed into our four wheel truck and just headed south. It was mostly just sleepy fishing villages. And it was in one of these little villages that I discovered my gifts. So, I'm sitting, just in my chair watching the ocean. And I heard laughter. And I turned and saw a group of children just looking at me and giggling. I mean, it hadn't occurred to me really until that point that they probably had never seen an American like me in that part of, of Mexico. One brave little boy decided to come up close to me. And he put his brown little arm next to my brown arm and looked me dead in the eye with just such wonder. And then the puzzled look came. And he pointed to my head and said, "El pelo.” The hair. At which point the rest of the little village kids came round. And it's not like it is in the States where someone looks at your hair and goes, "Oh my god, like, how do you do that?" I mean, it was more like they had such awe. I was a goddess to them. And they wanted to touch it. I mean, how many times do we hear that, "Can I touch your hair?" And it seems so insulting, but I felt like I was able to give them this gift. I was going to allow them to touch The Goddess. Yes, you may touch the hair. I mean there's, there's nothing like it — the joy of children — and I still see it today in practice as a pediatrician, where they walk in and they're looking at my locks and they're like, "Doctor, why's your hair like that?" staring at my head and pointing. But I could tell there was a true curiosity. They wanted to know why I was bestowed such a gift, why I was able to be The Goddess, and how was I able to get these locks. So every day I walk into my office. I'm sad to have to put these tresses away because of COVID. I'm afraid of some four year old sneezing into them. But the second I'm out of that office, I'm letting my locks go, because I recognize that this is me.

Corinne April Iolanda Conn

I love my hair. Oh, so much love, so much love is locked up in my curls! But, Lord knows, my hair has been a blessing and a curse all my life. Now, I've always had a really interesting relationship with my hair. When I was younger I hated it, because it took away from my playtime. My aunties told me stories of how I used to run screaming, as a child, away from anyone with a comb, because I just didn't want to deal with it. My hair is this piece of my identity that is so huge, because I had this hair, it meant I could be accepted in certain circles and excluded in others and it was just–the world seemed to define me and literally find me by my hair.

There was this one time I, like, barely scratched this car next to mine. I was 16, trying to rush off to an orchestra concert. And I looked and didn't have a piece of paper to leave my number on this car. So I drove to my orchestra concert and was gonna go about my business and my life. And got a call the next day that this, this owner of the car that I'd barely scratched, had found me because I was a tall, light-skinned woman with a massive amount of hair on my head. There were only so many of those in my neighborhood, I guess. And there I was, sittin'. The police found me. So, I didn't get out of that one okay. And that's why, on all of my medical school interviews, I wore it out–wild, free and as beautiful and big as could be. Because I knew that, while I wanted people to focus on what I had to say, I knew that they would remember the girl with the hair. I do love my hair! And my hair has loved me right back. The more I explore with it, and test different things out, the more it seems to teach me.

Patrick McMurray

Growing up as a Black boy, I didn't feel like my hair was important. I grew up thinking that Black men always wore their hair short, close cut in a fade, you know, something like that. It wasn't until I got into my 20s that I realized, like, “Nope, there are more options for Black men than cornrows and getting a fade.” I grew up having this kind of jealousy. Not that I didn't like my hair. But I grew up in a time where on Disney Channel, on Nickelodeon, all I saw were white guys and they could wear their hair slightly longer, they could comb it over, they could spike it. And I just felt like all the Black kids could just wear a 'fro, cornrows, or keep it short. And the majority of them just wore close cut, close cut haircuts. So that was my thought, was just that that's what Black men did. Now that I've been liberated as an adult, it's just interesting to see how Black men have evolved to take care of their hair. We see the wave, you know, people want waves now. Or people are wearing their hair and dreads more, and braided styles more, and, you know, curled and spiraled, like, patterns a lot more. And so I think Black men have been liberated to express themselves with their hair more than they have in the past. I comb a part in my hair, and it's like, I don't know if it's a term that anyone else uses but I came up with the term "micro-fro" and that's kind of where I'm at now. My work as a nurse has informed me that I can use science to have a healthier scalp and to have healthier hair and I take pride in that. I want Black men and little Black boys to know that, like, your hair is a part of who you are.Take care of it and you can use it to express yourself. There's something beautiful in that.

April, PICU Fellow

I have this really distinct memory, growing up, of sitting down and coloring in the Disney Princess coloring book. And I think I was coloring Ariel. And I remember my dad saying to me, "How come you never color any of the Disney Princesses Black?" And to me, at the time, it seemed like such a simple answer. Because none of them are Black. None of them look like me. And I'm not going to be wrong, why would I be wrong? And I just remember, you know, growing up, I went to a predominantly white school, and school was your life. That's where you do everything. That's where all your friends are. It's where you spend all your time. And we also lived in a predominantly white neighborhood, one of the three Black families, total, in this big, white, affluent, suburban neighborhood. I feel like for most of my childhood I was just trying to fit in. I mean, aren't most kids, I guess? But to me, specifically, I think that meant learning how to not draw any attention whatsoever to the fact that I was Black. The first time I got my hair pressed, I just felt so beautiful — just to see it shiny and smooth and flat, like all my white friends. That was beauty to me. And so I was pressing my hair and eventually started perming my hair and that was the whole thing. You know, going to the hairdresser to get your, your hair permed. And if you've been scratching, you knew that your head was going to be on fire. I hated it when it would start to grow out and you know, it wouldn't be flat against my head anymore. All of a sudden, it would be kind of puffy and bigger. And I remember this girl in middle school, passing by with a group of her, you know, friends, white friends, saying something, making fun of my hair, like, about how big and frizzy it was, and just feeling totally mortified. And so my hair was always this thing that felt like it could potentially betray me.

I ended up going to medical school and I was starting to feel a little bit more comfortable in being who I was, and then decided to just let my hair grow out. So I let my hair grow out and started growing dreads. And, at first that felt like a really avant garde thing to do. My hair just got wound up in this whole thing of my identity. Also, in residency, I ended up falling in love with a woman and coming out to my family as gay. And I matched into fellowship after residency in a city that felt like I could just explore the rest of my identity. And so the week of orientation in fellowship I shaved my hair down real short, basically a buzz with a little frohawk, so that I can be free.

And it turns out it wasn't all that liberating. It felt terrifying, because I hadn't done any of the rest of the work. I don't know. I just been reflecting a lot lately on everything that's going on in the world. And what does it mean? What does my skin mean? What does my identity mean? What does my family tree mean to me, and all the people that have come before me to get me to where I am now? And that reflection, and doing that sort of work and that sort of thinking, like, that is where I finally started to grow. And so I'm just leaning into trying to figure out who I am now. And my hair is growing again. Just, just like me, I guess.

Anonymous, Medical student

Hot combs and (subtle crowns) were hallmarks of my childhood. Two fingers on the back of my ears, I heard the hot comb sear. My desire to look like her helped me conquer all my fears. By her, I mean Sis on the TV screen, hair permed to perfection, her skin that's my complexion. But at that age I hadn't yet learned the lesson, the lesson that no matter how much I straightened my hair, I wouldn't be welcome, not here nor there. Professionalism will become the poison of my air, a suffocation that you couldn't believe. Please just let my blackness breathe. My survival, your comfort–seems like I'm always in between. Because in this country mela-nation God's beautiful creation is seen as something in need of ablation. But still they claim with racism they have no relation. Therefore my hair has become my not so subtle act of resistance. A reclamation of the crown rightfully ours is our existence. So I feel optimal in boardrooms with scents of cocoa and shea, afropuff proudly on display. I should have rocked my bonnet today. Either way my blackness has come to play. Black has always been the standard of beauty. Despite what's shown in the movies, I am proud of the resilient roots from which my hair grows, which are part of my history. So, Sis, go ahead with your 3c, 4c, wig-poppin', bald and beautiful, short and bold cornrows, twist out, Bantu knots, ponytail, kitchen knot, front lays, poof poof, afro, wash and go, you already know. Whatever it is, just know you are so beautiful. Black hair is a mosaic of beauty. To protect it is our duty. For too long we played by the rules never created for us. And now it's time to say enough is enough. So go rock your crown, Queen. And tell professionalism to get with it.

Tseganesh, Primary care physician

So when I was in residency in Boston, if you needed a bikini wax, you just went to the local place you got your nails done at, and a woman would take you into the basement. And without batting an eye, without making comments, would help you get your bikini wax done. So that was what I was used to. And when I moved back home to Minnesota, I thought business is as it usually is. So I decided to go get a bikini wax. I picked a large business, thinking, “This should be fine.” And I walked in to deal with, you know, bikini waxing. There were these young, twenty-year-old white girls who were working at the store. And that should have been my first warning. But I thought, “Girl, you can't be racist, maybe these people are professionals. Just go in there and do what you need to do.” So I went in. And to all my ladies out there, you know what I mean when I say getting a bikini wax is a little bit, hmm, vulnerable, right? So I am all prepped, and I could tell that they were visibly frustrated with having to deal with Black hair.

Now, we all know Black hair and I love my hair. It's curly, it's wild. If I want to make it straight it has to be tamed with a lot of fire. So, I love my hair and I have no problems with it. But to see them visibly frustrated with having to do a bikini wax made me feel an acute sense of shame. I just really wanted the experience to end. Just get it over with so I can go back home. And at this point, I'm in my thirties, and I wish I could tell you I said something–I just left, I was, like, "I'm not giving you my business." But I didn't. I was thirty years old. And I sat there and I took in their discomfort, felt my shame, paid my money. And I bet you I even tipped them. But I gave them my money and I left. And my only recourse is I'm never coming back here again. How many times do we do this? How many times are we put in positions of being shamed and we take that story with us and we leave and we never speak of it again?

Akeem Marsh

What's interesting for me is that I'm bald. I've been that way since about 2007-ish, as I was transitioning into the clinical years of medical school. I sort of think of it as my having had to sacrifice my full head of hair to become a doctor, since no one on either side of my family, to my knowledge, has been hit with this kind of male pattern baldness. When it comes to the work considerations, it's mostly been a matter of maintaining my head cleanly shaved, eliminate razor bumps and cuts, stuff like that. Cuz you know, I like to stay fresh. I think the hairstyle definitely has an impact on how I'm perceived. But exactly how it's hard to say. I feel like some people may be intimidated. But then younger people kind of love it. I've had a few encounters when patients either ask or they just put their hand on my head. And those are younger patients and, honestly, it felt like a little bonding experience. I remember one kid in particular, enthusiastically saying, "Yo, my son got the dome!" after putting his hand on my head. (LAUGHS) That was too funny and too cute. I've had my hair mostly bald, I mean, basically all this time in practice. And so people are able to appreciate the actual size of my head,which is, like, you know, a little bit bigger than average, I'll say. Anyway, in my practice, one of the things that I'm really good at is paying attention to details and remembering small things that patients share with me. So one time, in an interaction with a kid, I mentioned one of those details.He asks, "Oh, how do you remember that?" I give him this ”Are you serious?” expression and I say, "I got a big-ass head, man. I remember everything." And we shared a good laugh together.

Toyin Falusi

I still remember the day I met her on rounds. I’d taken over our service on the inpatient HIV service. And she had been in the hospital about thirty days. And I was getting to meet her on a Monday, taking over our service. Young girl, advanced HIV/AIDS, battling a couple of opportunistic infections. And she was starting to finally get better. She was being weaned off oxygen, and was starting to regain her appetite, was started on antiretroviral medicines in the hospital. I remember meeting her and she's probably twenty-four, twenty-five, slightly older than my kids. And all I could remember was how little she looked and how much hair she had. Her hair was big, it was huge, but it was matted. And she had been in the hospital, she had been in the ICU, and through all of that, the transfers back and forth, no one looks at her hair. I've spent many years in the hospital. I'm used to bringing in little hair ties, and getting out little rubber bands on my wrist to give to a patient. Because I know, Black women, our hair is important. Our hair is part of what defines us. And when people are in the hospital, a lot of times that just falls by the wayside. The little bowls at the bedside with a one shaving stick and little tiny comb doesn't cut it. It never has, never will. And there's nothing like having your hair done to make you feel like you're getting better.

But this one girl, young lady, was just finally getting better. And I told myself, I would braid her hair. I'd never done that for a patient. But there was something about her. She had this fight in her eyes, that she was going to get better. And I know that just feeling better about how she looks would help. So I asked her how she liked her hair and she said, oh, she always got her hair done—twists, braids, different things. But in the hospital, it just looked like a big old mess. So Saturday morning, we got done on rounds. It was pretty early, didn't have a lot of admits who were pre-call. And I just went into her room. And I said, "Hey, do you want me to braid your hair?" She was surprised, said "Doctor, you're going to?" I said "Sure!" Said, "I've been braiding my sisters' hair for a long time. I have three younger sisters. I have two daughters." I said, "I'll braid your hair." I sat by the bedside. I like to tell myself that my hands are soft no matter how tender your scalp is. Because both my daughters used to fall asleep with me braiding their hair. She had her phone on, on some YouTube video. WiFi was bad so it kept cutting in and out. And I braided her hair. I put her hair into eight cornrows to the back. She looked fabulous. She loved it. She cried. She said, "No one's ever braided my hair this nice." I said, "I'm sure they have.” But I like to think I'm pretty good. But I think just after thirty-two days or more in the hospital, she just was ready to start looking like she did before she got really sick. But soon after that she was discharged. Something as simple as just braiding her hair made her feel better.

Kimberly Manning

When I was a senior resident, I was working in the pediatric intensive care unit. And I was taking care of this sweet little boy who I'll call J. And J was about 11 months old. And he had been born prematurely, had spent much of his young life in the neonatal intensive care unit first. But this time he had gotten pneumonia and it didn't really take much for him to have respiratory failure and end up on a ventilator. And so, for much of the month that I was there in the PICU, I was taking care of him. His mother, she had two other small kids at home, she was very close in age to me. And she used to come busting into the PICU in the evenings in her work uniform looking exhausted. And it wasn't always easy, our interactions, and I'm thankful for one of the senior nurses who always reminded me that, you know, there's nothing normal about coming to see your baby every day in the PICU after work. Anyway, I build a strong rapport with J's mom, because the other thing, in addition to our age that we had in common, is that we were the only Black people in that PICU. Me, her, and her son. I grew to really care about his mom and I grew to care about him a lot. And what I remember about him is that he had this beautiful chocolate brown skin, and he had the biggest fluffiest afro that you could ever imagine. I mean, like, if you were to reach out and touch a cumulus cloud, that's what it would feel like, his hair.

One day, J was doing a lot better. And my attending and the rest of the team decided that we would try to extubate him. And we did. And he did great. And I could not wait to call his mom. I called her up and I was like, "Yo, guess what? J is off the ventilator." And she was all super happy. And you know, we all looked forward to seeing her that evening. You know, such a great day. I was so happy. And, you know, I kind of went through my day doing the things I had to do. And I also recall that I had to leave and go to clinic that afternoon, but all afternoon I just could not wait to get back to the PICU to take call so that I could be there when J's mom got there to see her baby off that ventilator, finally. And so I rushed back into the PICU. And I get there and I asked the nurses and the staff, "Did she come yet, did she come yet?" And they're like, "Nope, she's not here yet. But wait till you see your baby. Oh my goodness. He looks like a little man. Oh, my goodness. Wait till you see him," and all the nurses were like amping me up. And I rushed over, and I stand outside of the glass and look through the sliding glass door into his room. And it was like the wind got knocked out of my chest. Uhh. He looked so cute. Somebody had put him in this little outfit. It was a little sweatsuit, that said, "Mommy's Little Angel." And he even had on some of those little soft-soled fake sneakers. And he looked like a little boy. I mean, he didn't have any tape on his face. He, he looked so peaceful.

And then I noticed it. I was like, "Oh my god, oh my god." I was like, shaking. They're like, "What?" And I said, "Please, God, tell me that you did not cut his hair." And I swung my head over and looked at his nurse. And all the color just drained out of her face. And she's like, "No, I, I just want–I just wanted him to look really nice when mom got here, I just trimmed it." So here's the thing. It's already not a good idea to cut somebody's child's hair. Okay, let's just say that for the record, regardless of your race. But you do not cut a Black baby boy's hair before he turns one. You do not cut his hair. In fact, the old tale is that if you cut his hair, he'll never speak. But the point is, regardless of the reason, everybody seems to follow that rule. And they had cut his hair.

So when this mother got there, she walked in, looked through the glass, eyes widened. Filled with tears when she saw her baby dressed in that little outfit. She was moved, just like I was. And then she noticed it. She ran in there and looked at her baby. And when she tore up out of that room, I have never seen anybody in a hospital as mad as his mama was in that moment. She said, "You cut my baby's hair?!?" And I just kind of stood there staring at my feet like a little kid thinking, "I didn't do it!" The nurse was crying. She said, "I just wanted him to look handsome when you got here." His mom was, like, "He was handsome! I can't believe you did this!" And then in the middle of it, all of a sudden she rounded on me, pointed at me, and said "And where was you? Where was you? Why you let this white lady cut my baby's hair?!?" She was madder at me than anybody else. And in that moment I realized, oh my god. Me being there allayed a lot of her concerns. And I had just underestimated what it meant to her to have me, this Black pediatrician, there helping care for her baby. Oh, man. It was terrible.

But, what ended up happening was that the most senior nurse in that PICU, she stepped into the middle of all of this, and said to mom, "I am so, so sorry." And then she had this little box in her hand. And she presented it to the mom. And when she opened the box, it was little curls of his hair. And that mother just cried and cried. And she fell into that nurse's arms, this older, senior white-woman nurse and just wept. Couple days later, I went and saw him on the wards. He had gotten out of the ICU, was doing much better. And his hair was in cornrows. And I looked at his mom and I said, "Wow, I like his hair. Who did that, you?" And she said, "No. One of the nurses did it." And I kind of raised an eyebrow and said "Was that okay?" She said, "She ain't cut it." And we both start laughing.

Ashley McMullen

This has been The Nocturnists: Black Voices in Healthcare. I want to thank our core team: executive producer Kimberly Manning, The Nocturnists' founder Emily Silverman, podcast producer Adelaide Papazoglou, sound engineer Jon Oliver, and medical students, Rafaela Posner, and Lauren Wooten. Thanks also to executive producer Ali Block and program manager Rebecca Groves and communications intern Cora Becker. Our illustrations are by Ashley Floréal, and our theme song is by Janaé E.

Black Voices in Healthcare is made possible by the California Medical Association, the California Health Care Foundation, and people like you, who've donated through our website and Patreon page. Thank you for supporting our work and storytelling. If you'd like to add your voice to our project, visit our website at thenocturnists.com. We'll be back next week. Until then, remember: Black lives matter, Black health matters, and Black stories matter.