The real extension of myself

I’m ashamed to admit this summer I wore my hair ‘out’, that is completely naturally, for the very first time. I hope that by sharing some of the many emotions it brought with it, I can give you an insight into how prejudice, shame and society’s perception of beauty affected me for my whole life.

So, how come it took 54 years?

I’ve always been comfortable standing out, as the likelihood is, whether personal or professional, unless in a family context, I’d probably be the only person ‘of colour’.

Can you tell which one is me?

Growing up we were in fact the ONLY dark-skinned family in not just the ‘village’ or town, but the area. Even though my mother ensured I always had neat bunches or braids, I clearly remember suffering daily at the hands of children (and adults) making cruel comments about the colour of my skin, and texture of my hair, just because it was different to their own.

And of course there was the micro aggression of touch, with 80% of pupils in 2019 with afro-textured hair experiencing their hair being touched without permission. Not surprising that the study by World Afro Day also revealed that 41% of children with afro hair want to change their hair from curly to straight.

To be fair, paranoia about my hair was not just due to the many cruel taunts. Back then, we as black people didn’t help ourselves. My grandmother and mothers’ generation talked about women with ‘good hair’. This meant it was straighter than the tight dense curls I possess, due to a more diverse gene pool gained historically through force and/or choice.

Afro’s were seen as the style of ‘dissidents’ in the civil rights movement, so a ‘no go’, as everyone was trying desperately to remove as many of the differences as possible that existed between ‘us and them’.

Braids were something for children, or for those from ‘lower class’ backgrounds and dread locks, however neat…for those who had dropped out of society!

Back then, no respectable dark-skinned woman would think about going out in public without first subjecting herself to the searing heat of the metal hot comb, heated on an open gas burner or stove.

The frequent burns to the scalps, ears, hands and forehead were seen as ‘necessary evils‘ in the effort to make their hair look more like the majority of women they saw around them, which, in much of my working and social life meant ‘white women’.

Needless to say, as soon as I was considered old enough, I took the first opportunity to change my hair.

The trend at the time was the Jheri curl or ‘wet look’. Remember the ‘Soul Glo’ hair product in the film ‘Coming to America’? Well, that was me.

Never leaning back on sofas, or a car headrest and going to bed in plastic caps so as not to stain the pillowcase, in case I left the tell-tale embarrassing grease mark which would leave an even more negative impression of ‘black people’ to those around me.

Next, I turned to ‘relaxing’, the harsh chemical hair straightening, that back then cost a pretty penny and took hours in a salon. A process that needed to be repeated every few months and with the added pleasure of leaving your scalp burnt and full of scabs for weeks after, it can only be described as an assault.

If you were one of the lucky ones not to have your hair ruined by this vicious processing, the constant care needed to keep your hair ‘straight’ was, to put it bluntly, a pain in the arse.

And water was the enemy. The mere hint of rain would have me running for cover. Woe betide me if I forgot to carry an umbrella or a hat and got caught in drizzle or a downpour.

I would prefer to be stared at in the street for wearing a supermarket plastic bag on my head, than risk my own processed hair from getting damp, let alone wet and reverting to the ‘frizz’ I so dreaded.

I’d braid my hair for holidays because, as a lover of swimming, it was just so much easier.

Easier?

Well, with relaxed hair, immediately after getting out of the pool or sea I’d have to:

1) Rinse out salt/chlorine

2) Apply conditioner (As I sat in the sun to try to prevent the all too quick drying out and breakage which was a constant battle…and equipped with the necessary head covering so I didn’t look too out of place.)

3) Rinse before getting back into water

4) Then wash, ultra-condition, moisturize and blow dry

5) Flat iron — which takes far longer than Caucasian hair

All to be, what I considered to be, presentable.

The routine was exhausting, ask anyone I went on holiday with, but I accepted it as just something I had to go through. Plus, the specialised, read expensive (black women spend six times more on hair care than their white counterparts) products for every step, and ‘tools of the trade’, meant packing light was never an option for me.

Oh, I almost forgot, the passion killer of always sleeping with a head scarf to try and reduce the daily time and effort.

Far from ‘relaxed’ I’m sure you’ll agree.

But that’s how I felt ‘almost pretty’ and more acceptable to the circles I moved in, especially at work. I was the only person of colour in a large ad agency, running big corporate accounts with no one else who looked like me, unless they worked in the post room or canteen. Always being ‘presentable’ was a bit like a security blanket, always needing to create a good first impression, and my hair was very much a part of this.

Figures from the This is Black Gen Z* survey in the UK, found that 45% do not feel confident enough to wear their natural hair at work. So even today it’s hard for young people to be their authentic selves, which I find very sad.

I even tried ‘weave’, which is when your hair is hidden away completely in braids and European textured hair, or fake hair, manually sewn in to create the long flowing locks so many of us desired.

And don’t get me started on that haircare regime…

A few years ago, on one occasion of running for cover with a black girlfriend, we were overheard moaning about our fear of the rain and how it affected the straight hair we worked so hard to maintain. On hearing this, a white friend sitting nearby insisted her hair was ‘just as difficult to manage’ and would not be convinced otherwise. So, we set a simple, fun hair challenge, to photographically document the following when we got home:

1) Wash hair and dry naturally

2) Go to bed without doing anything else

3) Show the finished product the next morning

Unfortunately, because of shame and embarrassment, we also agreed to destroy all photographic evidence and not to show it to anyone, but, needless to say, she apologised profusely for not believing us when she saw the comedic pictures that resulted from our friendly challenge.

So having my ‘relaxed’ hair was the closest thing to having good hair. I guess I thought if it were straight it would only be my skin colour that stood out, something I couldn’t change (though many have tried through skin bleaching…but that’s another story).

That was, until the pandemic.

During lockdown spending time and money to maintain my straight hair was pointless and as braids had become more acceptable, it was an easy choice to make.

Ahh, maybe a qualification of ‘easy’ is again required: braids, depending on their size, take about 8+ hours to put in and at least 4 to take out, but all you need to do is wash and moisturise, waving goodbye to the everyday care routine….hallelujah!

Over the next 2 years, the relaxer in my hair ‘grew out’ completely, and it dawned on me that I never wanted to go back to that time and money consuming process.

So, I’ve been wearing my hair in braids ever since.

But there’s another challenge. You can’t just take out your braids and put them back in. You have to leave your hair naturally for at least week to make sure it’s healthy enough to re-braided. And that week would terrify me.

I’d plan my life around this nightmare, normally platting it in big braids (which made me feel as ugly as Celie did in the Colour Purple) or adding a hair piece if I had to go out. Much more normal was just not attend social events. I felt so unattractive as it didn’t conform to what I saw around me and our collective, distorted vision of beauty.

To be fair, my (white) partner had always encouraged me to try wearing my hair naturally. But his loving comments of, let’s choose one… ‘fuzzy’, made me believe that he really saw it as unattractive and was just trying to be kind. On reflection this was so unfair to him (something I must remember to apologise for).

So, what changed the last time I took my braids out?

Well, I went to see a wonderful natural hair specialist as I had no idea how to keep my natural hair in good condition (yep, you guessed it, to keep afro healthy and ‘presentable’ is just as much work, product and time!).

Walking out of the salon, I was so anxious and self-conscious. As I said at the beginning, I’m used to standing out, but I felt as if a huge spotlight was singling me out screaming “Black person alert”.

My ‘how people looked at me’ radar, something I’d developed early in childhood as anyone who stands out in any way will understand, was super heightened and I tried to read into every look, every ‘supposed’ stare. I almost cried because I felt so vulnerable, naked even, which was strange as I have a lot of hair. Unpleasant schoolyard memories of being teased and laughed at flooded in.

Funny how non-physical pain sears memory paths that can be so easily be reignited.

But surprisingly to me, I made it home unscathed, without being attacked or called names; without being singled out or unduly stared at.

And then the emotions started flooding in:

• Shame that I had always coveted the hair of others
• Shame that I had never thought my own hair was acceptable
• Shame that I had bought into society’s prejudices about and perceptions of beauty

But there was also pride.

• Pride that I’d started to conquer my own fear and prejudice against myself,
• Pride that I’d finally started to accept my hair as a natural part of me.

In fact I received many compliments from friends and even put off braiding for another week giving myself the challenge to wear my hair ‘out out’ to the Milkshake festival during Pride week in Amsterdam.

For the first time I can honestly say I actually felt almost beautiful and 100% comfortable and confident with my own hair, in my own skin.

I’ll always be thankful for the acceptance that Pride represents which enabled me to start accepting myself, even if it’s taken 54 years.

OK, so now my hair is back in braids, just because it’s the easiest, least time-consuming way to wear it. But from now on, I will, from time to time, be wearing my hair out naturally, without fear and with Pride.

No one deserves to have their confidence, self esteem and identity impacted, because they feel like they don’t fit in because of the way their hair grows out of their head, or the colour of their skin.

I’ve finally started to accept that I, however I decide to wear my hair, am enough.