Embracing my kink: a hair-story

By Kerry-Ann Francis - gt team's finance and business development manager

I’m an American living in London; black, female and of Jamaican heritage. I’ve recently decided to re-grow my “dreadlocks” or simply “locs” which I cut off in 2006 after having them for seven years, and have been searching for a natural black hair salon in London for the past couple of months. I was surprised by the lack of such salons in London; a major international city boasting an ethnically-diverse population with approximately 1 million people who self-identify as Black. If I wanted to get a weave, a relaxer or hair straightener, a texturiser, braids, extensions, or wigs, there are countless places spread across the breadth of London that cater to getting the kink out of my hair. The lack of places in London to help me maintain and embrace my natural kink, got me thinking about my own personal hair-story; a journey of twists and turns, self-exploration and, ultimately, celebration and acceptance.


A family affair


In October 1987, around the time the first Black History month was launched in the UK, I was nine about to turn ten. My hair was thick, strong, resilient and tightly curled. After washing, my mother or sister would part my hair into sections, apply a moisturising agent, like petroleum jelly or hair oil. It seemed very much like a family event; a rite of passage. I wore my hair parted into sections, and then plaited at the ends, with brightly coloured hair fasteners. I could do anything with my hair: go swimming, climb trees with the neighborhood boys, run to the shop to get candy, fall asleep with my head in my Dad’s lap. My plaits were colourful and vibrant and anyone seeing me strutting on the street would think me young and vivacious, if perhaps a little wild.



Occasionally, usually for special events, my aunt would straighten my hair with a hot pressing comb - an instrument reminiscent of the tools used by torturers during the Spanish inquisition. The metal comb would be heated up on the stove and then applied to my washed and oiled hair. It would hiss and smoke - a medieval dragon on the hunt for prey - as it reacted with the moisturising sheen applied to protect my hair from damage. My straightened hair made me feel more restrained but also more adult, mature. I could be like my mother and sit with her dressed-up friends at a party, sipping a soft drink and listening to adult conversation. I thought the transformation magical and special. It seemed as if I had the versatility and flexibility to be two different girls and expand my world of experiences. I had choice.



Growing pains


At puberty, my perceptions changed. I was trying to define and understand beauty as part of my own burgeoning femininity, sexuality and identity. I was inundated with images and portrayals of beautiful and successful women. The majority had one thing in common, straight hair. Did straight hair equal beauty, success, popularity? Did I need it in order to become a woman? Who makes up these beauty rules? And why do girls and women follow them? What did it mean, if I didn’t have straight hair? What did it say about me? Did every girl, white, black, latina, asian, go through this process of beauty definition? 



So, at 13, I made my Mom take me to her hair salon to have my hair chemically straightened or “relaxed”. My straight hair was limiting, restrictive and I didn’t have the ability to instantly go back to curly, like when i was young. The relaxer did everything but relax me. I felt trapped, tired of the work and the upkeep. I didn’t feel comfortable wearing relaxed hair and I felt as if my hair belonged to someone else and I had donned their skin. This sense of frustration and alienation made me want to explore other ways to define my own beauty. By 17, I was over the relaxer, never to have it done to my hair again.



My kink confirmed


Now, at 34, living in London and having had short hair for 5 years now, I’m ready for another change and am going back to locs. I realised, during my university years, that I was a woman who was never going to spend a lot of time on hair and make-up. I wanted to get up and go and not be burdened by the weight and rituals of preparation, most women of any race, go through every day. I was never going to spend an hour blow drying my hair, treating it with mousses and other unctions, applying pressing combs, ceramic irons, or beating back stray frizzies. It just was never going to happen.



Because of my own hair transitions, I notice hair on women from all different backgrounds and wonder about their individual hair-stories. I’ve finally made peace with my hair and have come to appreciate it’s beauty, resiliency and texture. I realise I am both those young girls, the wild and the sophisticated, the vivacious and the demure and that my journey of hair and self-exploration will continue. So, during this Black History month, no matter your race, take some time to trace the roots of your own hair-story. You’ll be amazed at what you discover.