Anyone who knows me will tell you that I despise dating apps. I think they’re the pits. I prefer to do things the old-fashioned way; guy meets girl in a bar; cute waiter sends a coffee on the house to the table you’ve been sat at; two strangers mindlessly bump into each other on the street – you know, all the meet cute stuff you see in the movies. Alas, life isn’t a Hollywood blockbuster. And even if it were, and we all truly are destined to star in our very own Rom Com, in 2020, Covid said no. 

And so, there I was one evening in October last year scrolling through the App Store, having been convinced by some friends to indulge in the online dating world. I chose to download Hinge; the dating app that is “designed to be deleted”. Or so they say. 

Swipe. Like. Match. 

There are three things I likely would have benefited knowing in practice before jumping onto apps: 1) Serial left swiping (or x’ing as it may be on some apps), no matter how tempting, will get you nowhere. 2) Dating apps are not for the faint hearted – get ready to air and be aired. And 3) anti-Blackness on them is rife, and at times comes from other Black people.

For the most part, my stint on Hinge was dull, amusing at parts, but ultimately uneventful. It featured repetitive small talk, peppered with generic one liners and faux interest in each other’s day to day. Occasionally it would be spiced up by rouge chat up lines like: “E9… oh my bad, I thought this was a vending machine because you’re looking like a snack” and “💦 💦 💦💦💦💦 💦💦💦 oh sorry, I’ve made a mess. How about I slide into your dm’s and mop that up” – you know, the classics guaranteed to make your knees weak and palms sweaty. 

Despite the aggressive urge to give up on what I quickly deemed to merely be a social experiment, I persevered; swiping through profiles that ranged from men flaunting their dogs as babe magnets, to those who accessorised their photos with babies and laughing toddlers to demonstrate their paternal instincts. There were some who padded out their profile with interests like cooking, music and hiking, while others relied on their humour and quick wit to illuminate their personality. 

And then, there were those whose profile cut straight to the chase and would explain exactly what they did or didn’t want from a partner. 

Swipe. Like. Match. 

“Only like if you’re okay with ethical non-monogamy” 

“Looking for someone to settle down with.”

“Not interested in a serious relationship, just wanting to have fun.” 

I had a certain respect for profiles like these. They weren’t trying to waste your time. They were being open and honest and their stances weren’t discriminating. Instead they were merely telling you were they stood – something that many frustratingly struggle to do on dating apps.

Swipe. Like. Match. 

“No wigs or weaves please.”

“I only date black women with braids.”

“Looking for a light skinned princess.”

On the other hand, I had a profound disrespect for profiles that contained comments like these. They jarred me, not only because of their blatant discrimination, but because they were always directed at the same group. My group; Black Women. And they generally always appeared on the same profiles. My counterparts; Black Men.

It wasn’t every day, but it was a common enough practice for Black Men that I saw to place certain conditions on the kinds of Black Women that they could be interested in: how light or dark we are, where the lighter was preferred, and what kind of hair we needed to have, or not as was also the case.

A few years ago, when I was trying to get my head around what being Black would mean for me as a Woman, I engaged in all sorts of racially charged conversations with Black Men. The topic of conversation would often be attraction, i.e. why they were or weren’t attracted to Black Women. A reoccurring theme was their dislike of wigs and weaves.

It’s an opinion some believed was born out of an aversion to ‘fake-ness’. They would argue that they merely preferred natural beauties. However, this would somehow always exclude Black Women with natural hair, while including non-Black Women, who by their definition were ‘fake’.

When asked, there was never any question as to whether they would date a Kim Kardashian-West with her extensions that sweep the floor, a Jenifer Lopez, who’s wonderfully weaved in waves make me wonder how her neck is so strong, or – to bring it back down to earth – one of their top five Love Island baes, who would all have their tracks showing by week five. There was never any question, but somehow when it came to Black Women with weaves and wigs, they were ‘fake’.

Finding the energy to explain the problematic nature of their stance was exhausting. Their issue was never about weaves symbolising ‘fake-ness’. Instead it was an expression of anti-Blackness; a Blackness that they themselves possess and yet in their own unknown way detested. These men, at the point of those conversations, were colourist and self-hating. Indeed, the Black Men who write comments like ‘no wigs or weaves please’, on their dating profiles are too.

They highlight not only a failure on the part of Black Men to see and respect Black Women, but also, to see and fully respect themselves.

And before anyone starts, yes, I know, #NotAllBlackMen. Some do grow out of that way of thinking, and indeed some of the men I once spoke to have. And yes, some were blessed enough to have been raised to never think that way in the first place. But still, enough Black Men for that failure to be felt across an entire group. I’m not the first, nor will I be the last Black Woman to write about it, be affected by it, be disappointed by it.

Swipe. Like. Match.

Download Hinge they said. It’ll be fun they said. Lol. I think I’m happy waiting until my destined meet cute, I always pictured my life as a Rom Com anyway. *Sips Tea*