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GREENSBORO — It's not unusual for women to talk about their hair — for hours.

But the conversations black women have about their hair differs greatly from those that white women have.

In the black community, the conversations go beyond aesthetics to weightier issues:

* Am I conforming to a European standard of beauty if I straighten my hair?

* Will I be hampered professionally if I have dreadlocks or an afro?

* Could I lose my job because of the way I wear my hair?

* Will I lose friends or boyfriends because of my hairstyle?

And, what is good hair?

That's the central question in Chris Rock's comedic documentary "Good Hair." He was inspired to make the film when his little girl asked him one day, "Daddy, how come I don't have good hair?"

Historically, "good hair" in the black community has meant a finer texture and looser curls.

Rock's movie explores the business of black hair -- a $9 billion industry -- and the pursuit of "good hair" that is straight, long and silky. And it's stimulating a lot of discussion of an issue that's typically not discussed outside the black community.

To straighten or not to straighten

The biggest hair debate among black women centers on natural versus relaxed or chemically-treated hair.

Many black women straighten their hair with a chemical relaxer, often referred to as "creamy crack." Some black women in Rock's movie joke about being addicted to the "creamy crack."

But some believe the desire to have straight hair stems from the idea that being attractive means conforming to a European standard of beauty.

Historically, within the black community, people project white standards of beauty, using skin color and hair texture to put one another down, says Greensboro attorney Afi Johnson-Parris, 37, who has worn both natural and relaxed styles.

"I think the whole 'good hair' concept has been, in some ways, one of the ways that black people have perpetuated self-hate," she says. "Instead of appreciating the beauty of blackness that comes in a range from hair that is ultra kinky to super fine or skin that is midnight black to milky white, we turn on each other and ourselves by rejecting or accepting one over the other. In essence, we are hating who we are and all that we are -- a really broad spectrum of people who are black."

Relaxers, which are made with sodium hydroxide, lye, or calcium hydroxide, can damage hair over time.

Natural hair stylist Kezia Spidell says it baffles her that so many people are willing to put caustic chemicals in their hair. She hopes Rock's movie will educate them about what they're doing. "You don't drink chemicals. You don't put them on your body. We try not to eat chemicals. ... Why would you want that in your hair?" Spidell asks.

In the movie, Rock demonstrates how sodium hydroxide can dissolve an aluminum can.

Ursula Dudley Oglesby, president of Dudley Beauty Corp., LCC, agrees that pure sodium hydroxide is harmful, but her company's relaxers contain no more than 2 percent of the chemical. From her perspective, Rock's movie shows how important it is that a licensed professional apply the chemicals. Oglesby's mother owns and runs three beauty schools offering a 10-month training program, as well as an advanced curriculum for licensed cosmetologists.

The Kernersville manufacturer of black beauty products is prominently featured in Rock's movie. Rock met Freddie Jones, a Dudley educator, at the Bronner Bros. International Hair Show in Atlanta. The event attracts black hair care professionals from across the country. That meeting led him to Greensboro, where he met the Dudley family and filmed scenes for the movie at the Dudley Products manufacturing plant. The company creates more than 400 beauty products, including relaxers and natural hair care products. Oglesby estimates about 15 percent of African Americans wear natural hairstyles.

Dudley's corporate staff saw the movie at a private screening in July. Oglesby says she loved it: "I thought it was quite informative and quite funny." Parents Joe and Eunice Dudley, who founded Dudley Products in 1967, see the movie as an educational film. Joe Dudley says it shows the American public what black women are willing to do for the look they want -- and the price they're willing to pay for it.

"It makes me appreciate what they have to go through -- how patient they are and how much money they spend," he says.

Many of Veronica Rogers' clients get relaxers, which start at $55. But the owner of New Appearance Beauty Salon tries to encourage them to wait longer between treatments -- every eight to 10 weeks, rather than the standard six weeks for most women. Rogers prefers to keep their hair straight with a flat iron or heated pressing comb.

"I'm always talking my clients out of a relaxer. It's healthier on the hair and scalp," she says.

Professional implications

But choosing a hairstyle is not just about how black women see themselves. There can be social and professional consequences to how they style their hair.

As comedian Paul Mooney says in one scene of "Good Hair," "If your hair is relaxed, white people are relaxed. If your hair is nappy, they're not happy."

While her white friends with naturally curly hair aren't judged on their work performance or grooming habits because of their hairstyle, black women often are, says Lanita Withers Goins. Withers Goins, a former News & Record reporter, decided seven years ago to stop getting relaxers. She wanted to see what her natural hair looked like, and she no longer wanted to use damaging chemicals.

It was the summer before her senior year at UNC-Chapel Hill. Some family members thought it was OK to have a natural hairstyle in college, but not once she started her career. She was nervous about it, too.

"From my experience in the black community, to be professional, you have to have your hair a certain way. Coiffed. Straight. There weren't a lot of black professionals with natural hair who were progressing professionally," Withers Goins says.

Still, she went through the transition. She worried someone might pull her aside to say she had to change her hairstyle, but it never happened.

"To me, it's not radical. It's not radical to wear your hair naturally as it grows out of your head," Withers Goins says.

Johnson-Parris believes that while people might not openly criticize a black woman for her natural hairstyle, some do judge them for it.

"In the professional arena, as much as we want to say it doesn't matter, it does impact the way that people perceive you," she says.

She wore her hair in braids when she joined the ROTC in college, but got her hair relaxed for her commissioning ceremony.

"Oh, you look so much more professional now," said her commanding officer, a white woman.

"I took it as code for less 'ethnic,'" Johnson-Parris says today.

Social pressure

Inside and outside the black community, black women often feel pressured to straighten.

Spidell, 27, decided to grow dreadlocks her junior year at Andrews High School. She had been using relaxers since she was 7, and her hair had stopped growing. Spidell's mother, who also has dreadlocks, warned her she would lose friends. Spidell didn't believe her.

"I lost friends," Spidell recalls. "My boyfriend broke up with me. I felt good (about my hair), but I was devastated."

Her peers associated dreadlocks with trying to be Jamaican or smoking weed, she says. Although her white friends and teachers accepted and supported her decision, Spidell eventually dropped out of school and earned her diploma at GTCC. Her dreadlocks now reach her waist. And those people who shunned her now admire her hair.

"They say, 'Kezia, your hair is so beautiful. I wish I had the guts to start locks,'" she says.

When black women decide to transition to a natural hairstyle, the transition is capped by "the big chop." That's when the relaxed hair is cut off, leaving just the natural hair behind. Depending on the length of time spent transitioning, that natural hair could be just a couple of inches.

When UNCG graduate student Melinda Alston reached this stage in her transition, her stylist spent an hour trying to dissuade her from it, asking how her boyfriend felt about it.

"My boyfriend likes natural hair," Alston told her.

Maybe her boyfriend just didn't want other men to find her attractive, the stylist said. She even tried to convince Alston that people would think she was a lesbian if her hair was so short. Alston did it anyway.

Her natural hairstyle now generates a wide range of responses. Some people associate her afro hairstyle with activism or radicalism. Once an older African American man thanked her for "keeping the (civil rights) movement alive."

A white woman once said, "Hi, Angela Davis," referring to the 1960s civil rights activist, who also wears her hair in an afro style.

Alston says it's wrong to generalize people, based on the way they style their hair.

"I wouldn't go up to a blonde, white girl and say, 'Hi Heidi Klum,'" she says.

For nursing student Cheryl Jones, 45, of Danville, the decision to grow dreadlocks 8 years ago reflected changes from within.

"It was a spiritual thing for me ... I felt like it was a time for me to change everything," Jones says. "Some people react negative to it, yes. But it doesn't bother me at all. ... I wear my locks for me."

Personal choice

Adrienne Avery has worn both natural and relaxed styles. The 24-year-old UNCG graduate student started getting relaxers because they made her hair easier to style and maintain. Her current style -- relaxed hair with sewn-in extensions -- lets her have longer hair. The Morganton native says she always wanted to have long, flowing hair, like her white friends at school.

"I wanted it blowing in the wind," she says.

Hair extensions, also called a weave, are a sensitive topic among some black women. While Avery doesn't mind revealing that she wears extensions, many women do.

Her stylist, Veronica Rogers, explains it this way: "You don't ask a woman how much she weighs or what size she wears or if she colors her hair to hide the gray. And you don't ask a woman if she's wearing a weave."

Women on both sides of hair divide expressed the wish that all hair could be viewed as good hair.

Hair awareness begins at a very young age, Johnson-Parris says. Her 5-year-old daughter asked this summer why her hair wasn't straight like that of her white friends. Johnson-Parris says her daughter, who is biracial, has beautiful hair -- what some in the black community might describe as "good hair." But Johnson-Parris doesn't want her daughter exposed to the "good hair" comments.

"I don't want my kids to think that their hair is good or bad," Johnson-Parris says. She just wants her children to have healthy hair and a healthy sense of self-confidence, regardless of how their hair is styled.

Eunice Dudley hopes that people outside the black community will see Rock's movie and that it will instigate cross-cultural dialogue. She wants them to know that black people style their hair differently, and the way that they do so doesn't affect how they perform their job or raise their families.

"Education is power, knowledge is power, and of course it helps you to be a better friend, a better co-worker and, in a lot of instances, be a better boss," she says.

Withers Goins, now 28, is such an enthusiastic natural hair advocate that friends call her "the nappy evangelist." But she says whether a woman wears her hair relaxed or natural, it doesn't affect her intelligence or how she does her job.

"At the end of the day, I hope that my personality speaks for myself and that my work speaks for itself," Withers Goins says. "Not how I wear my hair."

Contact Tina Firesheets at 373-3498 or tina.firesheets@news-record.com

Afi Johnson-Parris, 37

Greensboro attorney

The relaxed, short hairstyle Johnson-Parris wears today is less of a fashion statement and more of a matter of convenience.
In law school and her first years of law practice, she had braids, twists and afro puffs. But after the birth of her second child in 2006, she opted for the convenience of a relaxer. She describes her hair texture as kinky and very coarse. It requires a lot of work and time to style, she says. “When I had that second kid, I didn’t have time to sit down in a braid shop for seven hours or do it myself,” she says.

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Adrienne Avery, 24

UNCG grad student

Avery spends about $190 every eight to 10 weeks on her weave, and about $30 every two weeks to get her hair washed and curled. Grand total: $310, every 10 weeks. Avery says it’s all just part of her budget: “For me, it’s just like paying the electric bill.” And that part in the movie about not touching the weave? Oh, yeah. “As much as it costs, you don’t just run your fingers through a black woman’s hair,” Avery says.

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Lanita Withers Goins, 28

UNCG Media Relations

Withers Goins got her last relaxer in August 2002. She left the salon that day, knowing it would be her last. Her hair had been treated since she was a little girl, so she never knew what it would look like if left alone. As her natural hair got longer, she loved to play with it. She would grab a strand of hair, stretch it out, and watch it bounce back into its coily curl. "It was fascinating to me. ... I never knew that's what my hair would do," she says.

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Melinda Alston, 22

UNCG graduate student

When Alston’s hair was relaxed, it was long, straight and jet black — admired by many in the black community. But Alston says she started going through what she calls “cognitive dissonance” with her hair. When she led a workshop at UNCG that explored what African Americans consider to be “good hair,” she put her own hair up to hide the fact that it was relaxed. Alston initially decided to go back to a natural hairstyle at a time when she was more focused on African American issues. But it’s less of a cultural decision now. Simply put, it’s healthier for her hair.