Embracing my Roots

Lockdown Locks

Everyone has experienced lockdown hair woes, right? In the past six months, I’ve listened to a raft of friends/family/colleagues complain of DIY dye jobs, experimental fringes and clipper fails. Nothing has united the women in my life more than the collective dismay at the closure of hair salons. And with it, the ever-extending roots and sprouting greys which threatened to expose our perfectly constructed manes for their true, unprocessed, unruly, nature.

But for me, a 30-something; mixed-race; Scottish female, the introduction of a nation-wide quarantine brought more than just your average hair-mare. It brought genuine dread (and not of the lock nature). 

Born to a Scottish mother and Ghanaian father, I had never really learned to manage my hair. So, for the last five years, I’ve relied on family friends to braid, twist, weave, sew and straighten my frizz. With a ban on mixing households, how on earth was I going to survive the work video calls and weekly Zooms with friends? I hadn’t gone au naturel since… Well, ever, really. I was terrified.

I have what can only be described as a love/hate relationship with my head of natural 4B/4C hair. The conflict started long before the COVID-19 pandemic – a lifelong internal struggle between my two worlds, despite everyone telling me I had “the best of both”.

And with Black History Month just drawn to a close, I’ve been reflecting on the significance of afro hair as more than just a fashion statement, but as a symbol of beauty, power and revolution. 

My Hairstory

I was raised in the early 90s, in a small flat in Glasgow’s city centre. What may now be a beautifully multicultural country, was once predominantly monochromatic and at that time, minority ethnic groups equated to a grand total of just 2% of the population1. I was one of just two mixed-ethnicity children in my class at school (naturally we became friends). People openly stared at me on the street, and my mum was the only parent instructed to put my hair in a bun before I arrived at ballet school performances, because it was “unmanageable”. There weren’t many salons which could accommodate afro-textured hair, let alone specialise in it. So, for me ‘afro hair care’ was a bottle of Luster’s Pink Lotion and tears while my mum dragged a hot comb through my coils. Not quite the £88 million2 UK industry it is today.

One of my earliest memories of hair shame was at around seven years old when my mum took me to an outdoor play area for the day. A chatty little girl similar in age asked to touch my hair. This was not – and 23 years later is still not – unusual. Even at this early age, I was used to the (unwanted) attention, that my curly hair and light-brown skin afforded me. It was something that I didn’t understand but put up with. On this day, however, I decided I wouldn’t relent. I have never really had a desire to touch anyone else’s hair, so why should someone else touch mine? I refused. The little girl demanded, but I stood fast. In response, she took a handful and pulled hard.

I can’t tell you why this story has stuck with me all these years. Children throw tantrums all the time and while a little painful, there was no lasting physical damage. Plus at least she asked, which is more than I can say for some adults I know. Why, therefore, does this incident feature as a core memory? My best guess is because it’s the first time that I realised being different wasn’t always a good thing, despite what my mother told me. My afro hair, more than my afro skin, was what set me apart. This playground incident was just the first of many unwanted behaviours experienced as a result of that fact.

Now don’t get me wrong, I get my fair share of black-hair positivity, both in and outside of Black History Month. In fact, my hairstyles have earned me compliments in school, work, supermarkets, bars and nightclubs. I’ve even had women cross the street to tell me how beautiful my hair is and how they wished their sleek ponytails had just an inch of my volume. Who doesn’t love praise for something they work tirelessly (and pay top dollar!) to maintain? 

So, perhaps you’re thinking: “Most people are being nice and showing an interest in your uniqueness!” Surely, I can’t complain over a few bad experiences, right? I hear you. Honestly, I do. But for every “I love your hair!” there is another “Is it your own?” followed by a “How long does it take?” and inevitably...“Can I touch it?”. So, I wonder – would you ever walk up to a white person, ask if they were a natural blonde and whether you could stroke their head? It’s this constant level of scrutiny reserved only for black and mixed-race Brits that leaves us feeling like we don’t belong.

“Mane-stream” Media

I spent my youth looking at magazines and TV ads of beautiful white women with long, straight hair. At around 10 years old, I remember telling my mum that I wanted to rid myself of this disorderly curl pattern and “look like everyone else”. Having always urged me to be more strong-willed, I was surprised that she was heavily against the idea and instead responded with anger. To credit my mother, she tried her hardest to embed pride in my heritage – re-braiding my hair every week and batting off those who dared to stare! But despite her determination to educate herself on the needs of her mixed-race daughter, the lack of positive representation in mainstream media saw little pre-pubescent me, and many others like me, desperate to force the kink out of my follicles. 

Those of you blessed as nineties kids will know that growing up, even the black role models (think TLC, Destiny’s Child etc.) conformed to a European standard of beauty by sporting weaves and relaxed hair. While some stars like Brandy Norwood rocked classic box braids (check her 1997 performance as Cinderella to see her model some outstanding ringlet micro-braids, alongside Whitney Houston sporting a gorgeous head of curls as Fairy Godmother!) there was no denying the distinct lack of natural-hair love in the black community and a complete absence of black education in the ‘society’ back then.

For anyone still in need of convincing that lack of black representation was a problem, join me on my trip down memory lane to witness a teacher instructing me to remove the “inappropriate” headwrap I used to keep my braids tidy. And if you think it’s a thing of the past, let’s fast-forward to a more recent conversation with a Ghanaian hairdresser, who advised me to stop wearing my hair in traditional African styles or run the risk of people treating me like a refugee. 

Unless you’re a black or mixed-race Scot, you probably won’t realise that while the US had its ‘natural hair comeback’ in the early noughties, Scotland is still miles behind the times. Subsequently, once I reached the ripe old age of 13, no strong-willed mother could stand in my way. And, like many other black teens, I was ready for chemicals to burn away my natural frizz and make me ‘beautiful’.

I then spent the next 12 years comfortably invisible. Save for the odd Rihanna or Beyoncé comparison (though if that were true, I’d be seriously cashing in on the resemblance). For the most part, ironed strands were my camouflage and with over a decade of standing out like a sore thumb – I couldn’t be more relieved.

‘Good Hair’

When I recount the stories that weave together the tail of my tresses, it’s hard to miss the negativity. By my late 20s, I was ready to wash some of that depressing rhetoric “right outta my (afro) hair”. I’d spent so long wishing away my mane that it took me until my 25th year before I woke up and smelt the coffee. Or rather, the stench of the damaging chemical relaxer I’d been using to ‘look like everyone else’. I had tricked myself into believing that natural black hair was ‘bad hair’. Consequently, my own hair was now sad and broken, along with the connection to my beautiful African heritage.

I started to educate myself on how to properly care for what I’d previously believed was unprofessional and ugly. My research of hair types enlightened me to the fact that my curls have coils, not just kinks. My texture is thick, versatile and thirsty for moisture or ‘4B/4C’ on the Andre Walker hair typing system. Like me, it’s high maintenance and fragile, but, who else can add ‘cushion’ to the list of skills their ringlets are good for?

Afro hair is tamed by trauma and radiant with reform. If you decide to do your own exploration of Afro/Caribbean hair types (and I fully implore you to do that) I can guarantee you will find yourself transported through timelines and stories which are told each year, often during Black History Month. Its style and manipulation play centre stage in the Black Power movement, Feminism, and Rastafarianism, while, the subjugation and shaming of it are correlated to slavery. 

Now before you start breaking out the afro-comb, I haven’t become a fully-fledged ‘Naturalista’ just yet. I am very much Team Transition at this stage, having adopted protective styles (twists, braids & updos) for a handful of years now. While my inspiring little sister, who frequently dons her gorgeous, healthy ‘fro, out and proud – still receives critiques from our white family members because they think it looks untidy. And although Scotland still has a long way to go before we see equality in the hair industry with supermarket shelves stocking products appropriate for coil consumption (at a fraction of the cost they do now) – this unrelenting quarantine has compelled me to truly accept my black history through appreciation of my untameable, uncontrollably free hair.

I fully expect to have some setbacks along the way, so forgive me if I don’t let you peer under my crochet braids to marvel at my cornrows. Just know that I, and many other black and mixed-race people like me, are trying our best to feel at home. Continuing in the spirit of Black History Month now it’s ended, I will be celebrating what makes me unique. I have stopped my lifelong quest to fit in.

I hope you do the same.