Hair.
Whew.
Where do I even start?
For so long, hair has been a touchy subject for women of color — especially Black women. Especially here, in Nigeria.
It’s wild how something that literally grows out of our heads became so political, so judged, so… heavy.
Honestly, this has to be a series. Because I could talk about hair for hours — the pain, the pride, the confusion, the rebellion. All of it.
You’d think being Black would automatically mean safety. That we’d be free to exist in our own skin, with our own hair, in our own way.
But even among our own people, we face a different kind of policing.
Colorism.
Texturism.
That deep-rooted obsession with being “presentable.”
And by “presentable,” they mean:
Straight hair.
Relaxed hair.
Sleek edges.
Laid wigs.
And I get it — I really do. My own hair is relaxed right now, for reasons that are mine.
But I know what it means to be natural in a world that isn’t kind to that choice.
I Was 12 When I Transitioned
I remember the very first time I went natural — 2018. I was 12.
Fresh-faced. Excited.
And people… looked at me differently.
Even my own mother used to say my hair looked “spoiled” after a few days.
She’d say, “This your hair go scatter soon.”
As if coils unraveling meant I was no longer worthy of being seen.
It hurt.
It stung in places I didn’t even know existed yet.
People said natural hair was dirty.
You walk into salons and the stylists sigh before even touching your head.
They complain.
They yank.
They call it stubborn, hard, unmanageable.
They say things like, “Just relax it now — why are you stressing yourself?”
And at 12, you internalize that.
You believe it.
You start to look at your own reflection and wonder,
Am I ugly for wanting to wear my real hair?
The Day I Relaxed Again
I still remember the first time I got a relaxer after going natural.
People actually said, “Now you look like somebody.”
As if before… I was nobody.
It got to a point where I felt like I was only keeping my hair natural to prove something.
To prove that 4C hair could still be beautiful.
That I could be beautiful — without changing myself to fit into what people expect.
But it was exhausting.
Because nobody really saw it. Nobody cared.
And eventually… I gave up. Again.
I went back to relaxers.
Not because I didn’t love my natural hair — but because I was tired of defending it.
Even Salons Make You Feel Wrong
I remember going to a salon and being told they don’t do natural hair.
Another one said, “We can do it, but you’ll pay extra.”
Extra? For my own hair?
In a country where 90% of us have the same kinky, coily strands?
Make it make sense.
Even when you try to care for your hair yourself, people mock you.
You leave conditioner in for 15 minutes and they roll their eyes.
You ask for a wide-tooth comb and they scoff.
“Just relax your hair and stop all this wahala.”
They make it seem like loving your natural hair is drama.
As if it’s extra work. A burden.
As if it’s not ours.
The Word That Stuck
I was lucky, I guess.
My hair was described as “soft.”
Manageable.
And that was the word that stuck: manageable.
Not beautiful.
Not strong.
Not free.
Just… manageable.
Like, “At least your hair’s not too bad.”
Like, you may not be what they want, but your hair isn’t giving them too much wahala — so that’s okay.
It’s wild.
When I Have Kids Someday...
I’ve thought a lot about how I want to raise my kids someday.
And I’ve decided:
They will choose to relax or texturize their hair only when they’re 15 and older — when they’re old enough to decide what beauty means for them.
But until then, I will teach them to love their hair.
Not tolerate. Not endure.
Love.
Because this world?
This world will try so hard to make you hate yourself.
And it starts with your hair.
Even at Job Interviews...
Even job interviews — they’ll tell you to “go and do your hair.”
Meaning: straighten it. Slick it down. Make it behave.
As if being natural is the opposite of being neat.
As if curls and coils are a threat.
As if your hair is too loud, too wild, too… Black.
And the Locs?
A friend of mine has locs.
Beautiful locs.
And still — people call her “untidy.”
Ask her when she’s going to “fix” it.
But dreadlocks are literally African.
Our ancestors wore them with pride.
And now we treat them like they’re something to be ashamed of?
That’s not okay.
That’s not who we are.
Our Hair Is Not the Problem
We need to unlearn this shame.
Our hair is not a problem.
It’s not a flaw.
It’s not something to hide.
Our hair is a story.
A celebration.
A resistance.
A crown.
So yeah… I just wanted to talk about it.
If you’ve ever felt small because of your hair…
If you’ve ever sat in a salon chair and wanted to cry…
If you’ve ever been told your hair is “too much”…
Just know: you’re not alone.
And your hair is not the issue.
The system is.
Let’s talk.
What’s your hair story?
With love, knots, coils, and clarity,
— Emma Tom🦋
Blogger, Nigeria
