Liberation From A Lifetime of Hating my Hair

As hairdressers began to reopen this week, I started the search for the nearest Afro hairdresser. I’ve found a salon about 35 minutes drive away, which is a vast improvement from Cornwall where I lived for three years. There, I had to go to Bristol to get any products that were for my hair type, but was lucky to find a fellow black student and non-student to braid my hair whilst I was living there. This is testament to what my hair has always felt like; An Inconvenience.

“Why Don’t I Have Normal Hair?”

We jokingly described the town I grew up in as consisting solely of hairdressers, estate agents and cafes. None of the many salons however, offered services for African hair.

I remember once, I anxiously phoned the salon across the road to book in for a hair cut. As I walked over and into the premises on the day of the appointment, I felt embarrassed as my feet crossed the wooden floorboards. When the hairdresser I was assigned to collected me, I could tell from his expression that he felt out of his depth. I had to explain to him how my hair works and felt a need to assure him about the fact that because it was relaxed hair, once you’ve washed it it acts like ‘normal hair’ and is okay to cut like ‘normal.’ This way of thinking was so second-nature to me, but the language I was using, was so harmful (ha, 7 years too late Grace).

“I Want Straight Hair”

The period of getting my hair relaxed was an interesting one. There has been a big move among African women recently, in promoting natural hair, and it’s been very liberating. For some of my teenage years I would have a hair appointment every three months to spend £80-£100 getting my hair lathered with a chemical solution that would sting. I would feel happier afterwards because my hair was straight and I could make it look vaguely like how my friends’ hair looked, with a bit of effort. No pain, no gain, right?

My love affair with caucasian hair started long before I could consciously realise it. Watching back an old family video of me when I was 5, I see myself holding a barbie I’d got on Christmas Day, and continually brushing her straight blonde luscious locks. I owned a number of dolls growing up and my favourite part was always brushing their hair. In primary school on the way back from swimming I would brush and plait all my friends hair, again longing to be like them.

“I Wish I Was White”

These experiences I had growing up are products of a time where Black people existed in this country, but aspects of society failed to reflect and acknowledge that. Media has a massive part to play in this, and don’t even get me started on what was taught in schools.

The moment race-issues in this country first started to personally affect me, was the first time I hated on my appearance for not being white. It has been an ongoing battle of acceptance ever since, and it has been a real struggle.

I used to like the attention that came with (white) people being intrigued by my hair and wanting to touch it. Sadly though, that comes with memories of people laughing at it; thinking it’s fun to play with, but not actually having to live with the reality of being different.

“My Hair Is Cool and Powerful”

In the last few years, I have started to embrace my heritage and this has initially been through my hair. When in Ghana for my Grandpa’s funeral in 2016, I got my hair braided for the first time. My lovely Auntie dropped me off with snacks and ice water and I sat on a plastic chair in a shed, with four women braiding my hair for the next few hours. As the fan on the table whirred to try and control my sweat, I felt strange. Each braid that was done felt like a little bit of healing as a new identity started to form. It was a really important time for me, and I’m so grateful to my Auntie for paying for and organising it. It began my ongoing journey of taking up space, rather than trying to make myself smaller to fit into existing spaces.

Since then, I have begun to enjoy my hair and have been desperately trying to unlearn the years of hating it. Now I like how much I can change it up and try different styles and colours. I am enjoying accessorising with beads and colourful head wraps. I find comfort in it and it’s connection to my heritage. My hair is so much more than just hair; it’s representation of all the years women with Afro hair had to hide it, or were taught to dislike it. Now I embrace it because I am proud of my Black heritage and my ancestors. I refuse to be ashamed because they deserve so, so much more than that.

“My Hair is Me and I Love Me”

Small changes such as following more Black women on Instagram has started to affect the way I see myself. I try not to compare myself to people at all, but especially those who are white. The stereotypical ‘ideal’ beauty standards are often of people who are white. My personal experience (growing up in a majority white environment) has always been that they are the people that get the most ‘likes’ on social media, are the most popular; clothes are made for their body types. Consuming messages like that daily, how was I ever going to learn to love and accept myself just as I am?

After all these experiences, loving my authentic self, completely, feels like a radical act, and a crucial part of the BLM movement. I stand up a little taller now, and speak a little louder — I will no longer apologise for elements of my existence. I am going to show up as the person younger Grace needed to see, and make sure I am seen. Cheers to that! Now, where’s my Afro comb…