The rise of the Black Lives Matter movement was really a turning point – I realised how much I had been suppressing my identity as a Black woman
The author as a child: ‘My hair was hard to tame even for a Black mother who had a similar hair pattern to mine’
A recent survey by the hair care brand Pantene found that 93 per cent of Black people in the UK had experienced racial discrimination related to afro hair. While I can relate to this alarming statistic, I have also been guilty of hating my natural hair’s tightly coiled state.
I have had very thick afro hair since I was a child. My hair was hard to tame even for a Black mother who had a similar hair pattern to mine, and I would shriek in pain on a daily basis as she tried to comb and style it.
By age six, this persistent battle of my hair vs the comb couldn’t go on any longer. I pleaded and sometimes wouldn’t want to go school just to avoid having to do my hair. My mum eventually caved in and ended up straightening my hair with a kids’ relaxer. When I looked in the mirror, I breathed a sigh of relief: out was my puffy afro and in its place were straight, long, sleek and manageable locks.
The victory came to an abrupt end during a school trip to the local swimming centre. I had forgotten my swimming cap and went into the pool with my freshly permed hair. By the time I came out, my hair had shrunk into a tiny wave of jheri curls, much to my classmates’ amusement, and I was teased all the way back to school.
Without Google to help me understand afro hair shrinkage, from that day on I started to hate my hair. I blamed it for being the cause of such mockery. In between perms, when the straightness of my hair would give way to my kinky afro strands, I would be called “picky head” in the playground – a patois term used to refer to uncombed hair that forms small clumps on a person’s head.
All of my close friends at time were white girls and I used to secretly look at them with envy as they swished and swayed with their luminous, long hair. I mimicked them by wearing my school jumper over my head like a nun and running carefree with my “new long hair”.
Subconsciously I began to internalise that the Eurocentric standard of hair beauty was to be admired, while my afro needed to be covered in shame. By the time I reached secondary school, years of using relaxers had taken its toll.
My afro had become limp, I had lost my long length as my hair was coming out in clumps and my scalp had been left with minor scab burns from all the chemicals it had endured.
I was now hanging with a group of Black girls and we were all in the same boat about our struggles with our hair. We would be reprimanded by teachers, who didn’t have the slightest clue about managing Black hair, for wearing protective styling such as braids, because they were deemed as “inappropriate”. The mainstream media at the time rarely depicted afro hair as beautiful and it was nowhere to be found on TV, in magazines, films or music videos.
Within the Black community you were labelled as having “good hair” if your hair was anything but tough and coarse. Our Black female idols including Beyoncé were frequently seen flaunting long, Eurocentric 18-inch straight weaves. So I joined the bandwagon and tried to emulate them by covering my natural hair with weaves, wigs and braids – something I continued to do for the past 20 years. I have spent thousands of pounds on fake hair just to escape dealing with the afro lurking underneath.
I have never felt comfortable showing my partners my real hair out of fear they wouldn’t consider me pretty or glamorous without my weave (Stephanie Takyi)
Up until the Covid-19 pandemic, I thought my attitude towards my natural hair was healthy. But during this period of reflection, in which I’ve been trying to practise authentic self-love, I realise I have been masking decades’ worth of insecurity with wigs and weaves. The prominent rise of the Black Lives Matter movement following George Floyd’s death was really a shifting point for me as I realised how much I had been suppressing my identity as a Black woman out of fear of not fitting in with Western beauty ideals.
In the few times I have worn my natural hair out in professional environments I have hated the feeling of being some sort of afro spectacle, where colleagues have been fascinated by it and touched it to satisfy their curiosity. I have never felt comfortable showing my partners my real hair out of fear they wouldn’t consider me pretty or glamorous without my weave.
So, aged 34, I have started the journey to becoming reacquainted with my natural hair. Before lockdown I would have rather died than venture out in public without my wig or weave. But over the past year I’ve been wearing wigs less and have realised all my hair ever needed was some TLC in order for it to really thrive.
Overcoming self-hate for my hair is still a work in progress, but with the Black natural hair movement gaining momentum on a mainstream level, it’s been the perfect time to celebrate my hair’s newfound freedom. I am inspired by all the beautiful Black women boldly rocking their natural hair with pride, such as actress Lupita Nyong’o, singer Shingai Shoniwa from the Noisettes and beauty influencer Afro Glory. They are unapologetically themselves.
As a teenager I had limited resources when trying to understand how to look after my natural texture. Now there’s a wealth of information online on caring for afro hair without chemicals such as relaxers. When my professional life returns back to normal, I have vowed to start wearing my afro more freely in both the office and on the red carpet.
I do hope that with more natural Black hair being featured in commercials and editorials the afro will no longer be tarnished as wild, messy and unkempt. I feel so ashamed of the warped concept of beauty I once held. After all, my hair is my crown and glory and if doesn’t have the air to breathe, I will truly never feel comfortable to be me.