The knock-on effects of my decision to go natural have been vast and unforeseeable. My reacquaintance with my natural hair coincided with the birth of my son. My body was capable of things I had never dreamed possible. Working with it rather than against it, I felt my relationship with reality begin to transform in incredibly meaningful ways. It was a combination of events. Certainly, breastfeeding and motherhood were central, but my acceptance of my hair and the subsequent events that unfolded because of that acceptance were perhaps no less so. Subtly, over time, I moved away from tolerating my hair to enjoying it, to loving it. I wonder if my hair’s newfound freedom, volume, and height shifted the energy around me. It is said that many African groups have associated the height of our hair as significant in relation to divine power. The developments with my hair have been important in my ongoing reconnection to my body and its relationship to the natural world. I have a far stronger sense of completeness and a deeper understanding of the processes that work extremely hard to disconnect us both from our own bodies and from nature itself. Entire industries feed off our engineered insecurities to peddle products designed to interrupt our connection with ourselves and the universe. My relationship with my hair has been fundamental to this awakening. Oh, and my scalp is no longer agony to the touch. Bonus!
No gains are ever absolute, but it does appear that big changes are afoot. Globally, there is a movement of black women saying, “We are enough.” We want to be accepted for looking like ourselves. This in turn is having an impact on mainstream media and the imperative has come directly from us. Until recently, we just did not see natural hair on our screens. There were a handful of black women represented, but in the few instances they were granted visibility, they would either have “good hair” or would be wearing a weave. Textures such as my own remained unseen, forbidden. That finally seems to be changing. The release of Black Panther in 2018 made history for many reasons. According to Forbes magazine, Black Panther is the third-biggest-grossing film of all time and became the third film to earn more at the North American box office than James Cameron’s Titanic. No mean feat, given that earlier refusal to cast black leads in mainstream films was often justified by the played-out myth that black stories do not sell. But the film remains remarkable in almost infinite ways. It is undoubtedly a feminist milestone: the female characters are tech geniuses and warrior commanders and, in addition, the way they look is unprecedented in Hollywood. This is the first time a Hollywood production has created an onscreen world populated almost entirely by black women with type-4 hair. This was powerful not least because it showed our hair as beautiful, but more than this, because it was presented as normal—a space we have historically and very intentionally been excluded from. Growing up, I was made to feel like an abomination. I know that seeing women with hair like mine representing a spectrum of nuanced characters up there on the silver screen would probably have made me feel proud. It would certainly have made me feel far less alone.*
2
Ain’t Got the Time
Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.
Audre Lorde
Over the course of my life, I have spent what must amount to years having my hair done, from Brazil through Nigeria, the UK and the US, to Trinidad and Tokyo, in homes and in salons, bouji and back-a-yard, staring at my own reflection and that of the women above and behind me whose blue-black, dark-black, red-black, yellow-black, light-black hands apply creams and potions, stitching lines and tracks of weave to my crown in the service of an alchemy that transforms what grows on my head from one thing into an almost entirely unrecognizable other.
My bum has gone numb sitting on stools in various living rooms, my own and others’, listening to the shrieks of children and the high-octane melodrama of Nollywood while I have extensions attached to create meticulous braids that tumble down my back.
As a young child, I spent long hours on the floor wedged between the strong legs of strangers, my head cradled in their lap. These early childhood memories are vague in detail but strong in atmosphere. It is very warm. The earth is red. Everything else muted browns and beige. Dust motes lend the air gossamer-like materiality. We are in a small wooden building. My head is positioned in the lap of the hairdresser. I think I am facing toward her. I’m certainly with my mother. My aunt, my father’s sister, is perhaps with us, too. I have a lot of hair. Deft fingers divide it with mathematical precision. I am not particularly tender-headed, nor, if I’m honest, am I used to having my hair thoroughly combed. I am certainly not used to having my head yanked in this undeniably violent fashion. My scalp is on fire. I instinctively pull against the direction of my torturer.
West African women braiding each other’s hair, 1940s.
“Sit still or I will slap you!”
The tears spring to my eyes.
“Stop crying or I will slap you.”
Nor am I used to such commands. The tears freeze before they have a chance to flow. In desperation, I make pleading eyes at my mother. She casually looks away. She does not leap to my rescue. The ordeal eventually ends and my hair has been transformed into a style I can now identify as suku. Not exactly the hair of my dreams; I had wanted long, silky, swishy princess hair. Yet the memory is not an unhappy one. While the experience may not have been entirely comfortable, I’ve always enjoyed having my hair braided. I like the sensation of feeling it parted, the sharp teeth of the comb making contact with a scalp that is otherwise carefully protected, courtesy of the thick, dense hair that grows from my head.
Ouch. The calm before the storm.
There is something terribly reassuring about hands that know exactly what to do and how to do it. Confident hands that recognize my hair, hands—even when they are those of a stranger—that nonetheless identify my hair texture as familiar. A world apart from the reluctant hands of white stylists, whose fear of touching often feels at best underscored by the fascination of encountering an exotic and at worst by distaste. The same could be said of the clueless hands of white boyfriends who have tried to “run” their fingers through a texture not designed for that particular activity. In fact, I love my head being touched, but only by those who know that any attempt to “run” anything through it will result in snagging and pulling and most likely mash up whatever fabulous hairstyle I’ve taken pains to achieve.
(clockwise from top left) Ipako elede (bristles at the back of a boar’s neck, or the back view of a boar/pig); suku (basket); kolese (a creature without legs); korobo (bucket).
Generally, black people know our hair takes time and effort to do, so they don’t usually try to put their grubby hands up in it. I think there is also more of an awareness of boundaries and personal space, as well as the enduring, if these days mostly implicit, awareness that our hair has a spiritual significance. Look but don’t touch. (White people, take note.)
Traditional hairstyles take time and effort. They are a form of artistic expression demonstrated through sculpted shapes and precise patterns. Braiding techniques constitute a central component of this hairstyling culture.
IRUN DIDI
For centuries, cornrowing (irun didi) was an everyday feature of Yoruba and more generally much African life. Hairstyles existed as markers of social status and distinction, your occupation, your marital status, membership of a royal lineage, perhaps to demonstrate which orisha you were a priest or priestess of. A lot could be told about a person, as well as the values, ethics, and priorities of their culture, by their hairstyle.