Rockin’ the locks

Crystal Bowersox rocks, it’s plain to see. The folksy guitar-slinger from rural Ohio has dominated this lackluster season of “American Idol” with her vocal prowess and easygoing stage presence.

So why, then, are so many people hung up on her hair?

Via blogs and messages boards, fans have issued proclamations on the long, blond, ropelike dreadlocks that Bowersox, 24, sports.

Some love them, but others deride them with a passion. Venomous adjectives such as “dirty, filthy, and trashy” have been used to describe them.

“(They’re) ugly and make her look cheap,” insisted one poster. She’s a “fake sister,” claimed another, referring to the fact that dreadlocks are mostly associated with black hair.

All this vitriol underscores the many stigmas and stereotypes attached to a hairstyle that dates to ancient Egypt and, more recently, is often associated with reggae artist Bob Marley, a member of the Rastafari movement.

But even though such mainstream celebrities as Whoopi Goldberg, singers Lenny Kravitz and Adam Duritz, baseball star Manny Ramirez and author Alice Walker have worn dreadlocks through the years, it’s a hairstyle that remains highly misunderstood.

“I can’t tell you how many people have approached me trying to buy, sell, or give me pot,” says Ludovic Blain, a Berkeley, Calif., resident who has worn dreadlocks for 14 years. “And I don’t smoke anything.”

Although he believes his thick tresses have gained more acceptance in recent years, Blain, who has a Cornell University education and an administrative position, has seen them provoke false perceptions in job interviews and some social circles.

“People struggle to fit me in a box, especially when I leave a major metropolitan area,” he says. “Am I a radical? Am I homeless? Lazy? … At this point, I just chuckle.”

Jason Howard can relate. The 36-year-old Oakland, Calif., professional recently hosted his mother, who flew in from North Carolina for a visit. She took one look at her son’s cascade of robust dreadlocks and pulled him aside to ask if he was involved with drugs and gangs.

“I explained to her that my hair hasn’t changed me as a person,” he says. “It just fits my persona, and I feel it looks good on me.”

Loretta Green-Williams, 56, and Jordan Aiken, 23, have their own tales of dreadlocks woe.

Green-Williams, a Pittsburg, Calif., resident, notices how people “talk down” to her and question her intellect — never mind that she holds a master’s degree from University of San Francisco.

Aiken, a recent graduate of UC Berkeley, recalls how sororities and certain clubs shunned her after she switched hairstyles.

“Before I had dreadlocks, I remember being approached by lots of campus (recruiters),” she says. “Afterward, they would just smile and let me walk on by without handing me their fliers. … They probably didn’t think I fit into their demographic.”

Like others who favor dreadlocks, Aiken has seen them arouse curiosity in friends and strangers (“A lot of people want to come up and touch them”).

She has also dealt with what might be the biggest misconception about dreadlocks: that they’re the unclean, unkempt byproduct of neglect.

“They’re not dirty. I wash my hair. I really do,” she says, laughing. “No one ever says they smell bad or anything.”

Indeed, Michelle Robinson, who specializes in “locking” (or knitting) hair in her Oakland salon, Naturally Yours, insists that the hairstyle actually can be very high maintenance, with some dreadheads spending several hours a week on grooming and upkeep.

“There’s a lot of ignorance out there. What we’re basically talking about is just a larger strand of hair,” says Robinson, who prefers to drop the word “dread” from the term.

“It’s not dreadful. It’s clean and beautiful,” she stresses.

Robinson estimates that 70 percent of her clientele have locks. Her customers include “attorneys, doctors, teachers, preachers and business owners” who undergo a process in which the hair is separated into strands that are tightly twisted into coils.

It generally takes six months to a year for the locks to set.

What some don’t realize, Robinson says, is that many black women choose locks not to take an easy way out, but to “save” their hair.

“As time goes on, all the (hair-relaxing) chemicals they’ve used can lead to hair breakage,” she points out. “This is a way to go more natural. For some, this is the final destiny.”

One issue concerning the hairstyle is tinged with tension: Who should wear them?

For Rastafarians, dreadlocks are a symbol of inner spirituality. Moreover, for many blacks, dreadlocks represent a vivid rejection of assimilation and an expression of racial pride.

That’s why some regard Caucasians with locks as “culture vultures.”

“I’m not saying that people don’t have the right to wear the style, but I prefer it if there is some knowledge invested in their choice and that a certain level of respect and reverence is shown,” says Green-Williams, who has Rastafarian relatives.

“It would be like me wearing a yarmulke: What point are you trying to make?”

John Meagher, 21, a white Oakland resident and lead singer in a rock band, has had locks for two years. He says his hair choice has drawn compliments from black acquaintances.

“Maybe it’s because I really don’t go for a Rasta vibe. I’m not pretending to be something I’m not,” he says. “I actually hate reggae.”

Bowersox, who has had her locks for four-plus years, has repeatedly said she had no intention of snipping them off just to please “Idol” voters.

That sentiment draws a hearty cheer from Aiken, who has sported her blond locks for a similar amount of time.

“It’s a singing competition. They should probably focus on her voice,” Aiken says.

“If she loves her locks, I think she should just rock them and ignore what the people are saying. They’re probably just jealous anyway.”