‘But It’s just hair’: Understanding Black HAIRstory

I was 10 and addicted to the burning feeling of the relaxer in my hair. The hairstylist would look at me as she massaged the chemical into my scalp, saying ‘tell me when it burns, my dear’. I’d nod but secretly relished the tingling in my scalp. That meant it was working. So I would sit and let it burn away, a scab is nothing compared to how beautiful I would look. Silky, straight luscious locks like the pretty girls on TV. What’s a little chemical burn to how beautiful I would feel. Beauty is pain.

Chemicals were never enough to achieve gorgeous strands that cascaded down my back and swept my shoulders while I walked. No! I needed extra work; straighteners to tame my nappy growth. Relaxers were to wrestle the curls into a manageable bone straight texture, make it soft and ‘easy’ to maintain. Then my handy straightener, a mini thing from the hair shop, would burn the crinkle and kinks to a flat ‘do’. I just wanted to look like the pretty girls on TV. You know, the white ones, with longggg silk hair that sat perfectly. Hair that obeyed the laws of gravity. Hair, that even when curly, held a soft bounce. Hair that wasn’t coarse and raggedy and kinky and nappy. ‘Good’ hair!

10 year old me did not understand that my locks, my crowning joy, held over 5000 years of history and culture and black excellence. My kinky crown symbolised my identity. It knew who I am, who I was and where I belonged, no matter the country I would find myself in future. It held the pain of my ancestors forced to hot comb their curly tresses to appear ‘civilised’ to white people. It carried the joy of my enslaved brothers and sisters, in the 1900s who discovered relaxers and suffered the same burns and aches to fit into a society that used, abused and belittled them. To survive in this world was and is to aspire to whiteness. Little me did not know this. That no matter where I go, even if I was to be laid to rest on this foreign soil or preserved in a museum for all to see; my bones, my flesh, my hair and whatever is left of me, will always shine black.

So it will never be ‘just hair’. From before colonisation, black hair has been a symbol of tribal identity, religion, marital status and wealth. To our ancestors, it was ‘show me your hair and I will tell you who you are.’  Braids known as kohin-sorogun, (meaning “turn your back to the jealous rival wife,”) on a Nigerian housewife in a polygamous relationship, would tell you she wants to torment her husband’s other wives. Cornrows symbolised agriculture, order and civilisation and on an Ethiopian citizen would tell you that you’re looking at a fashionable aristocrat. In West Africa, a bald head would be buffed and shined to sit under opulent headgear.

In the 21^st century, hair showcases Black creativity, excellence and resistance (in the case of the Black Panther party, Rastafarian locs and 2010s Natural hair movement). Edges are swooped to the gods, buss down weaves are installed or sewn into our resilient hair, afros are defying gravity and shaped to our discretion. Braids, weaves, locks, pixie cut, shaven, afro, even straightened hair is styled with love and appreciation of the natural gift growing from our head.

Black hair is a living testimony of what we endured from racists and white folk. It is living art and culture. However, with our awakened appreciation for our locks, culture vultures have swooped in to appropriate. They craft a poor imitation of our pride and rename it uninspiring things like ‘sticky bangs’, ‘Kim Kardashian/ Bo Derek braids’ and ‘Viking braids’. These vultures use their minimal proximity to blackness and fear of being left out to hijack black hairstyles and leech off of black hair tends. While 10 year old me was imitating whiteness as self-preservation, 20 something year old me is seething at the sight of non-black people in braids, locs and Bantu knots. Our hair was too ghetto for you and now you wear our style because it’s ‘trendy’. Having to hear excuses like ‘it’s just hair’. while these vultures vacation in braids and take them out for work to look ‘more appropriate’ is an insult.

Black people are still fighting for autonomy over our hairstyles to be treated with respect and dignity in the workplace, school and official occasions. It was only in 2019 , USA CROWN Act was instated in some states to illegalise hair discrimination. In the UK, the 2010 Equality Act was established to protect us from discrimination, including hairstyles associated with a race or ethnicity. Yet this does not prevent us from microaggressions we face daily. ‘New hair today?’ ‘Look at that wild mane.’ ‘It feels like cotton.’

Don’t touch my hair!

You’re not entitled to pet me like a dog, neither are you entitled to using my culture as a trend.

Autonomy and pride of our black crown is a right that has been fought for. Hair is an amplifier of our ‘otherness’. At the same time, it is a symbol of who we are, where we came from and the joys and struggles of our people.

It’s never ‘just hair.’