I love my hair. Like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh, it has its own coiled energy and bounce. It is durable, has a sense of volume, and has an outstanding presence. It is worn with braids, cornrows, and sometimes finished with a colorful silk scarf. Most nights I twist it into a small braid and comb it the next day to follow its natural shape and curls. As a mixed-race woman, my Afro is a positive part of my identity and I want to celebrate it as it deserves. However, this was not always the case.
Like many older black and mixed-race women, my relationship with my natural hair was ambivalent. History has not always allowed us to take legitimate pride and joy in the complex texture of Afro hair. And the world has told us over and over again how we should feel about it. How should we try to tame it and “normalize” it? For many of us, the road to fully understanding its extraordinary versatility and strength has been a difficult one.
Tina Singler
My first photo was taken in the 1950s when I was three years old and placed in foster care at Barnardo’s home. I have no memories of anything before that, no pictures of my baby. It’s as if I arrived as a fully formed little girl with no history. I suddenly found myself part of a white foster family in a small town in the heart of North Yorkshire, having barely known my white birth mother or my black father. My new adoptive father, Jack, included me in his family photos. His grainy black-and-white photographs show me neatly dressed in a hand-sewn dress and hand-knitted cardigan made by my foster mother, Mary. But my hair, defying gravity and standing up in tiny dry locks, is a pitiful sight.
The struggle to get my hair to “look” became Mary’s personal battleground, and she soon discovered that her hair was resistant to standard weapons like brushes and combs. These simply tore apart the tightly coiled, unwieldy nest of curls, which became hopelessly tangled, leaving me in tears and Mary furious. She regularly used a pair of sturdy scissors to tackle the problem. Sometimes I would kneel with my head in her lap, cropped like a boy. With no experience with hair like mine, it was the only real solution, but it felt like a punishment.
I learned to ignore other children’s teasing, but it was even harder to ignore comments from adults.
At school, I looked at the other girls in my class and felt sick because I was jealous of their hair. Whether in a confident ponytail or neatly braided, their hair was a showpiece adorned with beautiful ribbons and headbands. I was fascinated by hair that moved. Hair that can be easily combed.
I learned to ignore the taunts from other kids and their rude questions. Was it a brush that was on his head? Was it hair or wool? Did you use a carpet cleaner to wash it? But the rude comments from the adults were hard to ignore. When Mary and I went to the store, I was scared to run into one of her friends who didn’t mind sticking his hand in my hair to feel this “strange thing.” “It’s like wire wool,” one of them laughed.
chemical romance
In my early teens, I started fighting my own battles, using a large barbed roller with a small pink dagger attached to my scalp. Leaving it overnight temporarily loosened the tight curls and created a manageable wavy texture, but it felt like I was sleeping on my nails. It was the Swinging Sixties and I wore miniskirts and bell-bottom jeans, but my hair, if left alone, would ruin my look.
That decade brought a brief sense of relief, thanks to the musical Hair and television coverage of the American civil rights movement. Hair like mine, in its pure, natural state, suddenly became not only fashionable, but a necessity for any self-respecting black person. Then, in college, a South African friend of mine started braiding my hair, showing me its strength and amazing versatility in style. It gave me a newfound respect for my hair’s elasticity and creative potential, and I began to feel in tune with my habits. Finally, I learned to love it…but it was a temporary truce.
Tina Singler
I hated it. I couldn’t recognize myself with this soft, silky thing lying limp on my head
In the 1980s I began living and working in the United States, working for 10 years in public relations for the Italian Embassy in Washington, DC. I immediately realized that that afro was dead. Natural black hair was no longer considered fashionable or desirable. Instead, it was all about killing that pervert in any way possible. Hot combs, hair dryers, or more often, the preparation of powerful relaxers gave us the straight, smooth style that everyone loves. If you double up on the chemical treatment, you can even get the popular Jheri Curl worn by Michael Jackson. Black Americans were embarrassed by my thick, untreated hair, and some couldn’t stand it. “That’s unprofessional,” one of my colleagues said, implying that my career path could be in jeopardy if I let it run its course. For a long time, I struggled with pressure from my black peers, but I was so desperate to fit in and succeed in America that I finally went to a salon for a five-hour session to have my hair chemically relaxed. .
I hated it from the moment I left the salon. I couldn’t recognize myself in this soft, silky thing that lay limply on my head, flapping in the slightest breeze. I didn’t realize how much I would miss the volume and control of my Afro. The dense network of my curls was like a force field protecting me. Without it, I felt exposed and vulnerable. It’ll get bigger again, I reassured myself, and maybe I’ll even get used to this smart-headed stranger in the mirror.
Tina Singler
But I never had a warm attitude towards her and it took the longest of the year for my natural growth to recover. I promised myself I would never do it again. Eventually, I found a black stylist who understood my hair, and I worked with her to learn how to regularly moisturize my hair and maximize its natural vitality. We recommend that all women with Afro hair do this because everyone’s hair needs are different.
Tina’s essentials
L’Oréal Paris Elviv Dream Length Curl Leave in Cream
ORS Olive Oil Nourishing Sheen Spray
pride and glory
By the time I became a mother myself in 1983, living and loving my natural hair had become second nature, but I still worried about my baby daughter. A girl came in with an unavoidable problem with her hair. I had braided my own hair as an adult, but it was a skill I never learned myself.
I wanted my daughter to be proud of her hair from the beginning, and it wasn’t easy. Managing the volume and stiff texture of Afro hair requires patience and experience. There’s very little of either, so when I tried to manipulate her hair, it usually ended up in uneven, lumpy braids, and I often ended up cheating. I moisturized and combed her hair as best I could and pulled most of it into a net secured with a headband. It was a stopgap solution that only glossed over my incompetence, but we were both relieved when she learned to handle her hair with her hands.
“It curls and twists and twists. It’s hair with attitude.”
Now, as an adult woman with children of her own, she’s part of a younger generation that embraces natural Afro hair as an authentic part of who they are, rather than as a passing fad. Most young black and mixed race women consider their natural hair to be a proud expression of their identity. They have grown confident in their vibrant beauty and all the great styles that their unique textures create. Unlike many women before them, they didn’t have to succumb to cultural pressures to transform them with harmful chemicals or constantly heat-treat them.
I am also proud that I have learned to trust my hair and how to give it the care it deserves. Afro hair is very thirsty, so it’s important to give them plenty of water. I use ORS Olive Oil Nourishing Sheen Spray regularly. To enhance those wild and wonderful coils, I love L’Oréal Elviv Nonstop Dreamy Curl Leave-in Cream.
From a girl in a black and white photo to a woman fiercely proud of her identity, my hair and I have traveled a circuitous journey together. We now know that Afro hair carries our history, tells our stories, and speaks our truth. Its bounciness and springiness can be difficult to harness at times, but such is its active nature. It coils and twists and turns. It’s hair with attitude. He knows his strength and sometimes fights back. I went from trying to live this to doing my best to live up to this powerful and inspiring heritage of my Afro hair.
“Hair Apparent: A Voyage Around My Roots (Biteback)” by Tina Shingler is now available
