I spent decades hating my hair, feeling cursed and wondering what was wrong with me, that I didn't have hair that blew in the wind like my friends. I didn't have beautiful ringlet curls like mixed heritage girls, which was the only "good textured" hair you saw on TV, I had what my mum called "bush" hair. The hair that broke off in combs and left me screaming in pain. My young bottom would go numb from sitting in the same position for hours, as my mother attempted to make me neat and presentable with disobedient cornrows and bunches.
When I was eight-years-old my mum gave up the fight and I lost my hair virginity to the ‘creamy crack,’ or chemical straightener called relaxer. At eight, my hair straightening addiction was born. I didn't feel myself, presentable or glamorous unless I had straight hair, and until I was 37, I had very little to do with my own natural hair. I spent thousands having my hair straightened, blow dried with weekly hairstylists appointments. When I had money to burn, not having to even wash my hair was seen as good times.
There are no "hair police" but the world is governed by unwritten, invisible rules and I knew loud and clear my natural hair was the hair of slaves, servants, the kooky best friend and all the other negative stereotypes I was brought up with in the 80s. It’s an unspoken belief that many hold true today, that if you wanted to be successful, you have to ethnically cleanse your hair by making it straight.
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