Hair symbolizes Maxine’s struggles with racism and self-acceptance throughout The Hate Race. As a Black person in a largely white community, Maxine learns from a young age to become self-conscious about her hair, and as she grows older, her hair often signifies her increasing self-consciousness and desire to conform in her community. Maxine’s hair is naturally tightly curled, and for most of the beginning of her life, she wears it in an afro. However, when she enters adolescence, she comes to resent her natural hair and attempts to change it. Initially, she tries to straighten it, but this goes wrong when the straightening product gives her a chemical burn on her scalp and, while at a pool party, she enters the water and ruins the style. This disaster symbolizes her failed attempt to assimilate into white society. Later, Maxine gets microbraids, which she’s happy with until her classmate Bhagita, an Indian girl with beautiful straight hair, comments that she liked Maxine’s hair better before, causing Maxine to lash out at Bhagita and insult her hair out of jealousy and insecurity. In this way, hair functions as a representation of the broader pressures that Australian society places on Black people, and specifically Black girls, that can make it more difficult for them to take pride in their appearance.
Hair Quotes in The Hate Race
Despite these racial tensions, migrants of colour and their British-born children had truly made London their home. In Tottenham, a few island grocery shops had sprung up: aisles stacked with jerk seasoning, tinned ackee, smoked salt fish and bruised plantains. The occasional black hair salon could be seen, with racks of multi-coloured hair-weave pieces, giant tubs of sticky dreadlock wax and netted sleeping caps spilling onto the footpaths. After twenty or so years, a strong black community was being forged.
Standing out the front of the party girl’s house in my damp frizzy-again hair and yellow halter-neck swimmers, waiting for my mum to pick me up, I had at last come to realise that I didn’t even like most of these girls I’d somehow come to idolize. That if my best friend wasn’t around, I preferred my own company. The realisation was enormous. It was sad, and tragic, and depressing. It was comforting, glorious, and freeing. It was bittersweet.
That afternoon, I couldn’t concentrate on studying, I sat at the desk in my room. I could hear the scissors snapping in my hands, the ugly, abusive words I’d said to Bhagita. They played over, and over, and over in my head. I felt sick about what I’d done. I wondered what Bhagita was doing; if she’d gone home and told her parents about me hassling her. I hated myself. I wanted to tear the hair extensions out of my head.
Cecelia was a spunky black-magic pixie, sparkling and vibrant. Her hair was cornrow braided flat to her head with the long ends hanging down her back. She was beautiful, my sister. Breathtaking. Not despite her blackness, but inextricably entwined with it.