The sanctity of ugly spaces

My parents owned a hair salon, JT’s New Attitude Beauty Salon. We just called it The Shop. Women showed up for their appointments in various states of composure. Now, there were the older ladies who you would never catch looking anything less than put together, even on the days when their previous roller wrap was past its expiration date. But then there were the women like me who knew that a visit to The Shop was just a step on the way to becoming beautiful. And when a woman is in the midst of glowing up, it is perfectly acceptable to roll in wearing sweats, slides with socks and a patterned scarf or bonnet covering her hair. Onlookers know how important it is to trust the process.

Black women bring that same energy to hair stores. Sometimes, it’s out of necessity – when we’re in the middle of a braiding session and we’ve run out of hair, there’s no choice but to throw on a hat, grab our keys and pray that the store has enough packs of that 18-inch braiding hair in 1B. And the other women scanning the aisles for just the right shake-and-go wigs or passion twist crochet hair? They get it. They look a mess, too. 

Society dictates so much of how a woman should look in public. And we have our own internalized ideas of the minimum efforts we will put in when we leave the house. Beauty is in the eye of the holder, and ugly is subjective. But ugly is the only way I can describe how I looked one time when I left the house in the pajamas I’d had on for two days, my hair pulled into a haphazard puff, a mask covering my money maker and unbrushed teeth. Being ugly means disregarding many of the standards of acceptable public presentation for women. Makeup, hair done, matching clothes? No longer required when ugly. It’s as if “fuck it” were an outfit. It’s partly a reflection of our mental health, but also our reaction to the world around us. 

Some of y’all might be thinking, “But Ashleé, why are you calling yourself and other women ugly? Would a real feminist say that?” LISTEN. Y’all know what it feels like to roll out of bed, look into the mirror and think, “Not today.” We all have our own different definitions of ugly. And my ugly might not be your ugly. This isn’t objective, y’all, it’s a vibe.

Now, I do love to pretty up. I can spend an hour getting ready to host The Moth StorySlam. People pay money for the event, so as the host, I have to give them something to look at. I have “stage wear” options in my closet that are mainly made up of sequin-covered garments my mom has found on clearance racks at Macy’s and TJ Maxx. 

But part of the beauty of prettying up is uglying down. 

The minute I sit in the driver’s seat after an event, the transformation to my true ogre self begins. Heels are coming off. So is my bra. If I’m wearing a wig, it might not make it home on my head. A highlight of the evening is rubbing old-school Pond’s cream all over my face and watching it melt and smear away the face I put on for the public. I LIVE for these moments of relief.

A lot of us got to be more ugly during COVID lockdown. People were literally dying from breathing air, and we were supposed to put on hard pants and makeup? Absolutely not. I loved seeing all the pajama pants on display during my Kroger runs. Let’s go, girls. We’d had enough, and we didn’t care that you could see every dimple in these Amazon leggings. We were trying to SURVIVE.

Many of us have gotten used to being outside again, which also means a renewed need to look halfway decent so the villagers don’t come after us with pitchforks and tiki lanterns. That’s why ugly spaces for women are so important. I need a place where I can show up however and no one judges me; in fact, I need a space where we all look a little frazzled because the world is on fire and I can’t always fill in my eyebrows, you know? 

I’ve recently added the nail shop to the list of places where a woman can appear comfortably ugly in public. I’ve become a nail girlie in the past couple of years. Every three weeks (two if I’m feeling particularly flush), sit opposite Anna and let her work her magic on my claws. How I look when I pop into the salon is going to depend largely on how my day is going. Beginning of a day of running errands? I’m looking casual cute in a matching sweatsuit. An appointment after work? Anna’s getting vaguely business up top and leggings.

At my most recent nail appointment, there was a young twenty-something woman two chairs down from me getting some intricate nail art. She was dressed like she was on her way to a very cute girls-only holiday party with lots of charcuterie and rosé. She had a bright, fuzzy fuchsia sweater, silver lamé pants and sparkly slides. Her hair was center-parted and straight as a pin. Her makeup was on point. Me, on the other hand? I had on high-water gray sweatpants (which is an act of god for someone who’s only 5’3”) and the navy blue Western Kentucky University hoodie I’ve had for more than 15 years.

I was peak ugly, and homegirl was the picture of perky holiday vibes. Yet we’d found a place where we could be comfortable just being ourselves.

I love these journeys for us.