Part Five: From Survival to Standard: Presses, Relaxers, Grease, and the Business of Looking Employable

By the late 1800s, the hot comb was already circulating in Black communities. It wasn’t originally invented for Black hair. Variations of heated metal combs existed in Europe earlier. But in the United States, it was popularized and adapted for textured hair by Black entrepreneurs, most notably Madam C.J. Walker in the early 1900s.

Walker did not invent the hot comb itself, but she refined and mass-marketed a system around pressing and hair care products designed specifically for Black women. Her goal was not assimilation. It was economic independence. She built one of the first self-made female millionaire empires in America by teaching Black women how to care for and style hair — and how to earn money doing it.

That matters.

Because straightening at that time was not framed as erasure. It was framed as presentation and opportunity.

Pressing was temporary. It responded to environment. It allowed flexibility.

But as industrialization increased and Black Americans moved into urban centers in the early 20th century, employment became more regulated. Factory jobs, clerical work, teaching, domestic service — all required appearance standards that were unspoken but enforced.

Hair was read as discipline.

And discipline was tied to employability.

Chemical relaxers entered more prominently into mainstream Black hair care by the mid-20th century. The first commercial lye-based relaxers are often attributed to Garrett Augustus Morgan in the early 1900s, though his discovery was accidental while working on textile solutions. Over time, relaxer formulas were refined, commercialized, and widely distributed through beauty supply chains.

Relaxers did something pressing did not: they altered the curl pattern for extended periods.

They reduced daily maintenance.
They reduced reversion.
They reduced unpredictability in humid climates.

And in workplaces where conformity reduced scrutiny, predictability was valuable.

Smooth began to align with stable.

Stable aligned with employable.

That was not written in law, but it was practiced socially.

Now here is the part that needs to be said plainly.

This history is not distant.

Segregation laws existed into the 1960s. Employment discrimination was normal practice long after Reconstruction. The Civil Rights Act passed in 1964. That is within living memory.

For some families — especially in communities with cycles of teenage parenthood — generational spacing compresses cultural memory. Two generations can exist within thirty to forty years. Sometimes three. Sometimes even four or five in overlapping lifespans.

That means advice passed from great-grandmother to grandmother to teenage mother to child can occur in a very short span — with less time for reflection and reassessment between each layer.

So grooming norms shaped under legal enforcement did not have centuries to evolve.

They had decades.

When a grandmother said, “Fix it before you leave the house,” she was not repeating folklore. She was responding to a world that had punished visible deviation.

That proximity matters.

Now let’s talk about grease.

Petroleum-based hair grease became widely popular in the early 20th century. It sealed hair. It reduced friction. It added shine. In environments where frequent washing was limited — whether by access, time, or product availability — heavy grease functioned as protection.

Under constraint, it made sense.

But as plumbing access expanded, as commercial shampoos improved, as dermatology advanced, the practice did not automatically adjust.

Oil became synonymous with moisture.
Shine became synonymous with health.
Infrequent washing became framed as preservation.

Layer that with relaxers altering scalp chemistry.

Layer that with heavy occlusive products sitting on the scalp.

The result was often buildup, irritation, and breakage.

And instead of re-evaluating the care system, the visible stress was attributed to the texture itself.

“See? It’s dry.”
“See? It’s hard to manage.”

No one asked whether the grooming method needed updating.

Because hair in Black communities has always been culture.

And culture does not instinctively feel like something that needs licensing or regulation.

Here’s another layer.

During Reconstruction and the decades that followed, Black barbers and hairdressers built economic power. Hair was a pathway out. Grooming skills created autonomy. But formal cosmetology licensing in the United States developed through state regulation in the early 20th century, often under frameworks that did not prioritize Black-specific hair education.

Black hair care knowledge remained community-based, apprenticeship-based, culturally transmitted.

When licensing became required, many Black stylists fought to gain proper access to credentials while navigating systems that were not built around textured hair biology.

At the same time, inside the community, there was resistance to the idea that hair — something embedded in culture — should require state permission to practice.

So you had two things happening at once:

A fight to gain proper licensing and legitimacy.

And a cultural belief that hair knowledge is inherited, not institutional.

That tension meant professional regulation evolved, but care methods sometimes lagged.

Not because of ignorance.

Because of pride. Because of ownership. Because hair was not seen as a medicalized discipline — it was relational.

But scalp health is biological.

And biology does not bend to tradition.

Meanwhile, workplace professionalism kept tightening.

Corporate grooming policies emphasized neatness and minimal distraction. Military standards limited bulk. Schools restricted volume. None of it explicitly named Black hair — but the enforcement disproportionately affected textured styles.

The written codes of segregation ended.

The social codes did not disappear as quickly.

When smooth equals safe long enough, it becomes normal.

When grease equals care long enough, it becomes unquestioned.

When infrequent shampooing equals preservation long enough, it becomes tradition.

And when tradition is only two or three generations old — sometimes four or five in compressed family timelines — it feels sacred.

But sacred and optimal are not the same thing.

This is not about shaming presses, relaxers, or grease.

It is about recognizing why they were invented.

Pressing was adapted for presentation and economic mobility.
Relaxers were developed to reduce maintenance and increase conformity under scrutiny.
Grease protected hair under limited access to resources.

All of those had purpose.

But when the environment changes, the purpose must be reassessed.

Because protection under threat is not the same as health in relative freedom.

And if the system that once required translation is loosening, then care can evolve without erasing culture.

That’s the shift.

Not rebellion.

Reassessment.