The boys in the back of my high school science class used to compete to see how many things they could launch across the desks and stick in my hair.
I think they got extra points if the missile — a wad of paper, an eraser or paper clip — nestled in without me noticing. For my part, the goal was to be unfazed. Don’t lose focus on the lesson, don’t make a scene, don’t, under any circumstances, be uncool. But then another bit of schoolroom rubble would bounce off my shoulder, and I’d remembered that whatever the joke, I was not in on it.
As I gathered people’s hair journeys for this project, there were threads that resonated so deeply, I found myself nodding, like to the rhythm of a steady drum: the love/hate relationships with straighteners; the shame in not knowing how to take care of your own crown into adulthood; the fear of how others will perceive texture and volume. There were also stories, especially ones about racism, that felt far removed from my experience. But in every hair story, it was abundantly clear that hair is more than a cosmetic concern. We talked about identity, self-worth, power, representation, culture, history, joy and heartache.
My relationship with my hair remains a work in progress, one that likely resembles the experiences of many people of color who were raised by white folks. My mother is white and my father is Samoan. I was raised by my mother, whose hair is a lovely nutmeg color with loose waves.
The thing is: Curls require care and expertise. They need hydration and silk and sun protection and the generational knowledge of how best to provide those things. But today, I’m proud of how far I’ve come. Product is expensive and braiding takes time, and I’m tired of using either just because I might need to run out for some eggs. And beyond the practicality of it all, what a terrible thing to believe that the way you are is not good enough to move about in the world.
I am writing this in a coffee shop five minutes from the Curl Studio, run by Denae Golden, whom I interviewed for this project. I washed my hair this morning and let it dry without product, just for this cut. My curls have frayed into rolling mounds of fluff, and my hair is long, which makes me feel more connected to the islander women I recognize occasionally in the Bay Area. When I glanced in the mirror before dashing out the door, I don’t remember feeling nervous or fidgeting with myself to hide the shameless volume my hair takes on when it’s left to its own devices.
My hair takes up a whole lot of space — space that can accommodate a lot of product, a lot of history, a lot of paper clips and wadded-up gum wrappers, a lot of love and self-care. I hope to never again want for something other than what I am. I hope to never again wish I didn’t take up exactly the amount of space I need.
Normal, not “extra,” and not the only one
“You can't join our club. Your hair's too curly.” My earliest memory of exclusion based on my hair was branded on the playground in kindergarten. I looked at the girl's smooth, straight hair and felt suddenly ashamed of my unruly curls. The gel-weighted braid above my forehead formed a glassy bridge protecting a circular wall of gravity-defying corkscrew curls. I came home crying and tried to brush my hair straight, which ironically would've transformed me into a child-sized dandelion. Thankfully, my mother stopped me from ruining the creation her fingers had labored to sculpt.
Like many, I straightened my hair in high school, until I noticed the damage it was doing, physically and mentally. I didn't have a significant revelation that led me to “the big chop” at 17 years old; I just didn't feel myself. With time, I found security in my bouncy curls. This took finding the right hairstylist, exploring protective styles, and eventually cutting and braiding my hair myself. By age 20, I knew the top of my head like the back of my hand.
But the security I felt with my hair was challenged when I entered the rock-climbing world at 24. In climbing spaces, there's a “no-effort” attitude towards appearance and hair. White cultural icons range from punk rockers to hippies to beatniks, all of whom feed into the modern, white-dominated climbing psyche, which ironically was taken from Black jazz and art scenes of the 1930s.
However, this nonchalance can be fundamentally incompatible with Black hair. Taking the time to oil and wrap my hair after the bonfire isn't “extra”; it's a necessity. Prepping my helmet with a satin scarf isn't vanity; it's a way to prevent breakage. Wearing protective styles when trekking isn't a bohemian fashion statement; it's a normal way to protect my hair.
A younger self would have allowed these narratives and lack of Black representation in climbing to intimidate me. However, I had enough security in who I was to find a solution. It took two years to find a consistent group of Black climbers who engaged with and encouraged these everyday habits and who are working to make the outdoor space more inclusive. For others in search of this community, I started Black Rock Collective, a group dedicated to Black communities that coordinates meet-ups in Bay Area climbing gyms, fosters Black joy in climbing and offers a safe learning space for Black folks to try a new sport without judgment. BRC, along with other groups like Negus in Nature, Outdoor Afro, Brown Girls Climb and the Brown Ascenders, has made immense strides in normalizing the presence of all types of people and hair in nature. During every climbing, hiking and camping adventure, I'm noticing more and more that I'm not the only one with lotion in my bag, hoops in my ears and twists in my hair.
—Brittney Butler
“My hair is my crowning glory”
My hair is my crowning glory, but it wasn’t always this way. My hair is a mix of 2b-3c curl types, and starting at age 13, I’ve done everything I can to make it straight: flat iron, at-home relaxers from Walgreens and expensive Brazilian keratin treatments.
I would cry while getting ready in the morning because, growing up a Filipino immigrant in San Francisco, I just wanted to fit in. My other friends of Asian descent had silky, stick-straight locks, while I had this frizzy mess that would become unruly in the fog. I remember often forcing my hair down with the palms of my hands.
Finally at 23, after moving to New York and finding it difficult to fight the intense humidity, I gave in to my natural hair. It took many years of searching for the right products and curly hair stylists to get into a good groove with my hair. Now at 36, my curly hair upkeep is quick and easy, and I get lots of compliments about my curls. I’ve also gotten weird comments from some of those friends I grew up with who say that it looks like I just woke up or don’t believe my curls are natural. The stigma of curls in Asian culture is real, and I think it’s tied to whitewashing.
Here are my curls in all their glory. For the last 10 years, they’ve been my favorite thing about myself.
—Rica Sunga
“Searching for something that made me love my hair”
It’s big, it’s curly, it’s frizzy, it’s beautiful. My hair is a confluence of my Jewish and Mexican heritage. Being raised by my white mother, my hair was an under-explored part of my identity.
Up until the fifth grade, I would wear it brushed out, morphing my perfect ringlets into a frizzy triangle. After years of being called “triangle head,” I discovered the flatiron *heavenly music.* For the next decade or so I woke up each morning two hours earlier than needed to iron out every single curl or imperfection from my head. I was completely content going on like this indefinitely, but as I got older and, let’s be honest, lazier, I started exploring options that wouldn’t require me to be an early riser.
The world of ethnic hair care was completely foreign to me as the only product my mom used was hair spray. Discouraged by the options readily available, I turned to my homeopathic hippie roots. If coconut oil and argan oil were good for my skin, why wouldn’t they be good for my hair? While they kind of worked, I was still searching for something that made me love my hair just as it was.
I bumbled along like this for years, not feeling beautiful with my natural hair and not letting many people see that side of me. It wasn’t really until 2020, while holed up in my tiny San Francisco apartment, that I started exploring my hair again. I learned how to “plop” my curls and use a Denman brush from TikTok, and that if I left Olaplex in my hair for a full 12 hours, it would transform my curls into silky perfection. Now, as COVID restrictions loosen and the city returns to some semblance of normalcy, I find myself excited to apply my learnings and show the world — but more importantly, myself — just how beautiful my Mexican Jewish hair can be.
It’s big, it’s curly, it’s frizzy, it’s unique, it’s special, it’s beautiful.
—Sophie Obregon
More important than my hair
I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. I love a good hair day and feel more attractive. I'm going for an effortless, wavy bedhead look, yet it takes time and effort to achieve. My hair is naturally curly, but I prefer a more controlled wave. I wish I could break free from the daily use of blow drying and heat tools and just let it go. My 12-year-old daughter laughs at my use of both a straightening iron and curling iron. I'm happy that she doesn't fuss with her hair (yet) and seems to like her curls. It's a chore to do my hair, but I'm not quite at peace with my natural curls.
My husband gifted me one of those fancy Dyson hair dryers for Christmas. I love it, yet I'm embarrassed at the extravagance of it.
Over the course of several years, I've experienced hair loss at the temples, above my ears. I was told it is a less common form of alopecia (frontal lobing alopecia), and that there is nothing I can do about it. (My eyebrows completely disappeared. I draw them on every day with makeup.) As a result, I frequently wear a baseball cap outdoors, and windy days are stressful. I walk with my head down to try to hide my hair loss. I can't put it up or in a ponytail either. I even met with a wigmaker, hoping I could get something for just the bald spots, but the only option was a full wig, which I didn't want. I like the hair that I have.
I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2019 and feared that if chemo were necessary, my hair would not grow back. I was relieved that chemo was not needed, but also felt guilty, ashamed and vain for thinking only about potential hair loss. I have been taking folic acid and biotin in the last couple years, and it seems to have slowed the hair loss, but it hasn’t grown back. I realize having my physical health and mental health is more important than having my hair grow back, so I try not to dwell on things I can't change.
—Anonymous
“A part of me was missing”
At age 4, I had already made a rudimentary connection between my hair and my Black male identity. I was one of few Black children in a predominantly white kindergarten, and every little Black boy had nearly the same style: a tight buzz cut with no more than an inch of hair. Even half an inch would have made me a Nazirite in my household; for years I rocked the same bald cut as my father, a military officer.
As I progressed from elementary to high school, I felt envious when other boys in my class (most of whom were not Black) began experimenting with different hair lengths. These boys had plenty of trendy, celebrity-influenced styles to choose from, from the frosty spikes of the turn of the millennium to the long locks of the mid-2000s that sat somewhere on the continuum from Ashton Kutcher to emo rocker.
The few examples of longer styles I saw among Black male public figures seemed inaccessible to me. The older folks in my family, better attuned than I was to America’s Eurocentric beauty standards and unfair stereotypes about Black men, thought I’d look “unkempt” with anything more than a buzz cut since I wasn’t blessed with so-called “good hair.” Their resistance to me growing it out led to a few disagreements (and one comical surprise barbershop trip). All of our views have since evolved considerably.
I started growing out my hair in college, but after a career services organization told me I needed a shorter style to land a post-grad job on Wall Street, I immediately cut it short and kept it that way for several years. During this time, I always felt like a part of me was missing when I looked in the mirror.
It wasn’t until I left the finance world that I started experimenting with longer looks. The online natural hair community was an immense help as I learned the products and techniques I needed in order to style and care for textured hair. This ecosystem was largely started by Black women and other women of color, but as a Black man, I still felt welcome and celebrated.
I studied for my MBA and MS at Stanford, and in June, I walked across the stage at Stanford’s commencement with my head held high, waving at my friends and family, tight curls peeking out from my graduation cap. Today, I feel more comfortable and happier with my hair than I’ve ever been, and I’m thrilled that laws like the CROWN Act will create the legal support needed for everyone to freely express themselves and their cultural heritage.
—Benjamin White
“Rocking locs”
I came back to college with my hair braided and my nose pierced. I ended up dropping out later. My friend told me about a professor regaling incoming freshmen about a student that dropped out whose details eerily described me. I had become a cautionary tale — the professor describing how much my style had changed and how it had possibly contributed to me dropping out. It hadn’t, but not having to worry about doing my hair all the time or about how it looked gave me a boost in confidence. I felt attractive for the first time in my life. That started a 25-year journey of mostly wearing my hair braided. Eventually, I started tiring of wearing someone else’s hair and of the cost, the stress and dealing with unreliable braiders. The stress was due to having to take my hair down before getting it rebraided. I was so inexperienced on how or what to do with my hair when it wasn’t braided.
Then I saw someone with sisterlocks and knew it was what I wanted, but the price wasn’t in my budget. I tried getting my hair locked three separate times. I tried loc extensions, twists and interlocks. I took them down each time. They just weren’t what I was looking for. I thought about the money and time that I had invested in getting these locs. It was then I made it a mission to research and save up for sisterlocks.
I admit it was a bumpy start. I felt self-conscious about how short my hair was and how it looked, but I learned to style my locs. I’ve been rocking locs for 12 years now. I’ve grown them down to my behind, cut them up to my neck, curled, styled and dyed them. It’s been a journey. The health of my locs currently isn’t what I would want it to be due to weight loss thinning and due to dyeing them. But I am still loving my locs. One thing I regret is not having taken part in the natural hair movement. I would have liked to experience my loose natural hair. To be able to learn and appreciate my crown in all of its glory. I sometimes think about cutting my locs. I just might someday. But for now, I am locked and loving it.
—S. Andres
“I see you’re just getting started”
My stylist, the soothsayer. Sugarcoater, not. She pulled no punches. Warned me outright about the beginner phase, the in-between phase, the neither-here-nor-there-yet phase. The need for patience. She ushered me in one January, and we began. While we began, she shared stories about schisms amongst stylists who wear natural hair and those wearing weaves and perms. Within the natural collective, additional rifts cracked along client lines: if you service natural clients, but wear a straightened style yourself, you were a preachy poser whose hands were out of sync.
I couldn’t quite cannonball, so I dipped a toe in: braids out, spartan crop of Nubian twists in. Strangers on streets and in trains, in cafes and on elevators, commented.
“I see you’re just getting started.”
“That’ll take forever. Did you know you can get instant ones?”
There were many paths to dreadlocks, including the immediacy of instant techniques. I wanted not just the style, but the journey. The quest. Shortcut methods would exclude any trial attending the passage. I needed the complete compass.
—Lyzette Wanzer, excerpt from “Trauma, Tresses, and Truth: Untangling Our Hair Through Personal Narratives” (Nov. 2022)
“The streaks of color changed my life”
When I was in my 50s, I developed a severe allergy to hair dye. Until that time, I had been dying my hair regularly to try to look younger, and stopping caused me to become a white-haired white woman, sometimes referred to as a “Q-tip.” I hated it. I became virtually invisible. Young people ignored me; actually, almost everyone ignored me. I missed interactions with people I would meet and especially with young people.
So, I decided to streak my white hair with vibrant colors, like purple, pink and sometimes blue. As long as the dye did not touch my skin, I was OK. Well, the streaks of color changed my life. My hair has become a conversation starter with many people I meet, and young people love my hair and often stop me to talk. I meet and talk with new people all the time now. I love it. I am no longer just an invisible “Q-tip,” I have become an interesting anomaly, due to my colorful hair streaks.
—Linda Tiefenthal
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