Hair Today, gone Tomorrow...

Growing up I never had much hair. I was not one of those babies with a hairband around a miniature afro. Don’t get me wrong, I was cute, but my hairband was around a few strands of baby hair rather than an afro. My hair only grew to a decent length during my pre-teen years when I discovered the joys of tying my hair up in different ways. My obsession with my hair is no different to any other black girl’s obsession with her hair. 

I also believe that almost every black girl’s insecurity or pride & joy has something to do with her hair – it is the bane of our existence. It starts in our formative years when our black parents buy us Barbie dolls with long, silky, blonde hair. My sister and I used to wash that hair, brush it and even plait it – in an act of living vicariously through these plastic models. These seemed easier than the extensive treatments our own hair has to go through. 

“Ethnic” hair requires that we chemically straighten (commonly known as relaxing) it every four to six weeks to give it that silky texture. I personally am not opposed to this practice (regrowth irks me), but what I have always been offended by is the fact that the packaging for these products has girls with hair extensions on them. It took me very long to realise this, though. All little black girls grow up under this impression. Is it any wonder we have such a love-hate relationship with our hair?

Beyond the hair relaxing and my hair length (yes, it is quite long now beneath a million braids), my major dispute is now with my hairline. After years of tugging and pulling every time I get braids or a weave (human hair extensions) installed, traction alopecia has crept in and so has another insecurity about tying all my hair back. Traction alopecia is commonly referred to as a receding hairline and it is most common amongst black women because of all the hair extensions we plant every other month. 

I remember tweeting the following one bad hair day: “Changing my hairstyle every month like I’ve been promised a new hair line,” and “Braid it and forget it,” explicitly portraying the frustration with my hairline, yet also fearing how much longer I have until I start balding.

The Oxford Dictionary gives the definition of “recede” as: “go or move further away from previous position” and “to gradually diminish.” The former explanation is what has literally happened to my hairline and the latter figuratively denotes what happens within us when this occurs – after some time the value we place on our hair diminishes and so does that feeling of grandeur, of running your fingers through your hair and posting enviable selfies on social networks. 

The more we try to salvage our hairlines, the further we push ourselves into that hairline abyss. It’s a vicious cycle. Hair loss may seem like a trivial matter to some, but when you've grown up aware of the "your hair is your crown" notion and suddenly when you look in the mirror, you see that some jewels have fallen off your crown, the gold is chipped and your reign is drawing nearer to an end, your self-esteem takes quite a knock. At the end of the day, hair loss is to a black woman in her prime what acne is to a teenager. Alas, we all have our insecurities.