Chelsea Harmon

I can still recall the brisk air sweeping across Madison Avenue as I checked my lipstick in the glass window of a luxury men’s clothing store that morning. Clutching a leather portfolio tightly with my manicured fingers, I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths before looking up at the gargantuan tower of glass and steel, complete with the shiny brass awning. I wasn’t nervous to meet with a senior vice president nor sell myself as the perfect candidate to fill a management vacancy in a competitive agency, I was nervous about my hair – my natural hair.

I worried that I wouldn’t be considered “professional” with my hair styled in the texture that it grew out of my head; instead they’d regard me as “too ethnic” or “too radical” with caramel brown highlighted ringlets resting gently on my neck. Pushing the doubt aside, I pushed the revolving door forward and confidently glided across the marble floor to the reception desk and checked in. The suit (the stout Caucasian man with an air of aggravation and annoyance attending the desk) briskly swept a guest key card with the company name across the large onyx table top in my direction and pointed to the elevator bank. I thanked him gracefully, pivoted in my black heels and sashayed around the corner.

As I pressed the up button on the wall I decided something, a thought I had never had before as a grown woman with 10 years of experience, and especially not as the lone little girl of color in an affluent neighborhood in Washington, D.C. some 20 years before; in that moment I decided that if this company, this place that I had touted as the “it” spot to further my career in New York City couldn’t accept my voluminous tendrils then I’d rather not be a manager and like it or not, I would be unapologetically myself, curly hair and all.

I was greeted in the lobby by a pleasant Caucasian woman who ushered me into a dark conference room, switching on the lights and inviting me to wait. I could tell she may have been somewhat surprised, possibly unsure about the curly haired stranger who had appeared (I’d always kept the profile picture on my LinkedIn account one of me with my ‘acceptable’ straight hair, bumped at the bottom with neutral makeup and an oxblood power sheath dress) instead of the ‘predictable’ person she’d researched on the online employment oriented networking platform days earlier. After 10 minutes, I walked through a sea of cubicles into the senior vice president’s office and took a seat.

As I sat there, mere minutes after having an epiphany about my own self-worth, I crossed my legs gently and gazed at her with a quiet sense of assurance. As she fussed with the mountains of paper on her desk and closed some windows on her desktop before starting our conversation I had already made up my mind, either way, I wasn’t going to change my appearance to fit this perfect box of what African American women are ‘supposed to look like’ that the mainstream media had rammed down my throat since the day I was born. I calmly explained how my skills in television production were transferable to the agency, how my poise and problem solving prowess would be an invaluable attribute that I would bring to the table, how my wealth of technical expertise would be a boon to the organization; I explained everything to her that early Monday morning, everything but my hair.

After the interview, I politely shook her hand, thanked her for meeting with me and turned to walk back through that sea of cubicles to the heavy glass doors. When my feet finally touched that marble floor on the ground level I felt like I finally exhaled; literally and figuratively. I felt lighter and more confident in the reflection that I saw when I turned my iPhone camera on to use it as a mirror. I didn’t give any thought to the exasperated attendant behind the desk nor did I make eye contact with anyone else in the lobby; I had accomplished my mission that morning – a mission I didn’t know I could do so shamelessly; I revealed my curls in corporate America.

Several hours later while coordinating a webcast I received the email from the recruiter that they would like to offer me the job. I smiled to myself. In that moment I wasn’t the subjectified mannequin, fussed over to fit into a politically correct storefront window of eager job seekers hoping to be noticed; I was myself in my natural state as I was meant to be.

Chelsea Harmon

New York City Metropolitan Area 3K followers 500+ connections

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About

Experience

FCB New York

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Education

Hofstra University

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