Home
Book
Store| Home |
Inventors | Book
Store |
Kwanzaa | Ankh | Queens | Kings | Names |
|
Kimberly Morgan was a studious sophomore at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill when she decided on a makeover that would shock her mother, a schoolteacher, and her father, a retired FBI agent.
She cut off all her hair.
As if having their beloved daughter bald was not enough, Morgan let her hair grow back -- but this time she trained it into dreadlocks, the clumped strands popularized by Rastafarians such as Bob Marley and Peter Tosh. Her nervous parents, worrying over their daughter's future, became even more anxious.
"I remember my mother wondering if I was ever going to get a job," Morgan recalled. "She asked, 'Do you know the spiritual ramifications of dreadlocks?' "
Long before dreadlocks became statements of fashion and rebellion, the hairstyle had spiritual meanings. In modern times, it was revived about 70 years ago by Jamaicans who regarded Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie as a deity.
Morgan's parents, who might also have wondered if she would ever get a date, needn't worry so much any more. Ideas about hair -- that biological signal of health, age and experience that has been turned into a billion-dollar grooming industry -- have changed. Or have they?
In "Hot Comb: Brandin' One Mark of Oppression," her one-woman show that opens today at Pillsbury House Theatre, Morgan inhabits more than a dozen characters as she twists the topic of hair around history, politics, class and status in America.
She uses her story -- from going under the branding comb as a little girl to getting curls, asymmetrical cuts, crimps and a short, straight 'do à la Halle Berry -- as a jumping-off point to investigate hair's sociological, political and personal implications.
From Samson in the Bible to Medusa in Greek mythology, from Rapunzel in fairy tales to modern reggae musicians, hairstyles have been colorful contributors to our history. How they are regarded by others has caused conflict. For African-Americans, hair texture ranges from coarse tangles to horse-tail wispiness. In that culture, hair can be a glorious crown over which mothers and daughters bond or a burden weighted with ignorance-based taunts and shame.
Black hair-wrangling is not a quickly mastered skill; like a willful child, it has a hard time minding its mistress.
"I remember sitting between my mom's legs as she did my hair," said Morgan, who attended private school in Connecticut and is now married to a business executive. "She would tell me stories about her experience from an era when people had 'good hair' and 'bad hair.' I had very thick hair, but she wasn't saying it to make me feel bad. She was explaining the rites of passage."
Morgan's mother was simply trying to protect her only daughter. Black hairstyles still make the headlines today when companies are sued for disallowing braids. (Last fall, North Carolina's Cumberland County banned cornrows, braids and dreadlocks in high-school sports -- the latest in a long list of similar attempts to flatten the natural bent of African-American hair. ) Morgan's mother would later press her hair with a hot comb, which was hard on her head.
"The first time that you do get burned, it's horrible," she said. "Your mother doesn't intend to, but you can't help but get your hair and scalp burned."
A famous back
You might not realize it, but you've probably seen a picture of Morgan, who followed her husband here from Seattle several years ago. She's the museum visitor with her back to us as she stares into a frame for a print ad for the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. Her waist-length dreadlocks are distinctive and intriguing.
She also has been seen on stage in the Twin Cities, making her area debut in Penumbra Theatre's "Diva Daughters DuPree," in which she played a Jamaican-influenced stoner, and performing in shows at Pillsbury House Theatre and the Great American History Theatre, where she was noticed by Pillsbury co-artistic producing director Faye Price.
"She has such ferocity, such commitment to her characters," Price said. "She's a performer who's game -- who jumps right in."
That can-do work ethic also impressed others in the Twin Cities, including Penumbra's Lou Bellamy.
"That girl can act -- and I don't mean put on, but really bring all of herself to the stage," he said.
Audiences can see her full range in "Hot Comb," a showcase in which she acts in eight vignettes with titles such as "Happy to Be Nappi,"Dreaded Dilemma,"Style-a-tude" and "Relax Hers?" Her characters range from ages 6 to 90.
How does she keep it all together since she never leaves the stage?
"Through rehearsals and a lot of prayer," she said with a laugh. "'Hot Comb' is from the heart."
Or head.
When Morgan cut off her hair that day in college, she not only escaped the chemicals that had been burning her scalp, she launched into another world that has now taken her to a stage in the Twin Cities.
And she gained admiration of at least one famous writer. In her well-known poem, "To Those of My Sisters Who Kept Their Naturals," the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Gwendolyn Brooks writes: "Sisters! Your hair is celebration in the world!"
It is that -- and a show, too.
IF YOU GO: Hot Comb: Brandin' One Mark of Oppression
Who: Written and performed by Kimberly J. Morgan. Directed by Tawnya Pettiford-Wates.
When: 7:30 p.m. Fri.-Sat., Wed.-Thu. Closes June 4.
Where: Pillsbury House Theatre, 3501 Chicago Av. S., Mpls.
Tickets: $18. Pay what you can on Wed. 612-825-0459.
Rohan Preston is at rpreston@startribune.com.