A Kenyan woman’s personal journey from relaxers to micro locs; exploring Black hair as identity, hair trauma, workplace pressure, and how to teach daughters to love their hair.

Growing up in Nairobi, my hair was thick, long and bushy. It was a living thing that needed time, patience and a village. Wash days were a family event and a chore that tired my mother. We had cornrows, plaits and the occasional silk press. When my mother took me to Mama Alex Salon, the blow-drying and plaiting felt like respite; someone else took over the heavy lifting. At 17 I relaxed my hair and remember the immediate relief: it was manageable and sleek, an easier version of myself.

Decades, braids, weaves and a few identity tests later, I told my hairdresser I was done. I wanted micro locs. He almost gasped. Maybe he thought it was a mid-life moment. Maybe it was. The truth is the last three months learning my hair again, after decades under a perm has been intimate, surprising and tender. People worried I’d get bored. Instead, I feel like I’m meeting my hair for the first time.

This is a piece on that meeting: what stories we inherit about our hair, how Black hair carries history and identity, the trauma it can hold, and how we, especially as mothers can teach the next generation a kinder, truer relationship with their crowns.

The stories we hear about our hair

For many Black girls in Kenya and beyond, the tales begin early.

• “Your hair is unruly.”
  
• “You’ll be easier to manage if you relax it.”
  
• “Good hair is straight hair.”
  
• “Keep it tidy for school and work.”
  

These phrases are small, repeatable, seemingly practical advice, yet they shape belief systems. We learn that hair equals presentation and that some textures are more acceptable than others. At school, at family gatherings and in the workplace, this messaging piles up until it becomes internal truth.

But in our communities, hair is also celebration. Cornrows, braids, locs and ornate styles are ways to mark cosmology, artistry and belonging. Hair is where creativity meets ancestry.

Why Black hair is identity, not just style

Black hair is cultural memory. It speaks of migration, resistance, community and style. In many Black cultures hair is called the crown because it is both visible and symbolic. It expresses pride, spirituality and lineage. Whether you wear braids, locs, fros, twists or a silk press, hair is a daily language you use with the world.

When the wider society tells you your crown is “unprofessional,” it’s not neutral. It’s a value judgment rooted in Eurocentric norms. Those judgments influence hiring, school policy, and everyday interactions. They chip away at confidence over time.

The invisible wound: hair trauma and its effects

Hair trauma is real and layered. It can be the result of:

• Internalized messages that natural hair is “bad” or “hard.”
  
• Forced conformity at school or work (policies that target hairstyles).
  
• Chemical damage from repeated relaxers, harsh treatments or heat.
  
• Hair loss from stress, illness or alopecia.
  
• Emotional pain when a style that once felt like identity is lost or erased.
  

The psychological toll goes beyond vanity. When your hair changes in ways you did not choose, whether through illness, forced cutting, or social pressure, you can feel a loss of identity, visibility and control. Grief for hair looks like low self-esteem, social withdrawal, or a hesitant relationship with mirrors.

Presentation pressure at work: “Good hair is healthy hair”—and more

Black women frequently navigate “presentation pressure” which is the expectation to look a certain way to be taken seriously. The message is subtle: keep your hair neat, tame it, make it resemble the dominant culture’s standard of professional appearance. This pressure carries emotional labour. It forces daily decisions about safety, acceptance and authenticity.

Practical truth: good hair is healthy hair.

But also true: you should not have to alter your body or your culture to feel respected at work. The fight for hair inclusivity in workplaces and schools is a structural one and also a personal one. Both do matter.

How we teach our daughters about hair

Since choosing micro locs, I’ve noticed how I treat my daughters’ hair differently. They have bushy, long hair. For the first time in a while I let them keep it loose more often. I allow experimentation at home. I let them learn how their hair behaves without rushing to “fix” or conform it.

Practical ways to teach daughters:

1. Language matters. Replace “tame” or “bad” with “care” and “understand.”
   
2. Normalise variety. Show them many styles and stories; perms, braids, locs, afros, weaves.
   
3. Make care a shared activity. Let them help on wash days. Teach touch, not just styling.
   
4. Model pride. When you wear your hair naturally, you offer permission.
   
5. Talk about history. Explain the cultural roots of styles and why certain looks are powerful.
   
6. Fight rules that shame. Challenge school or workplace policies that single out natural hair.
   

Healing hair trauma: a psychologist’s perspective

From a mental health point of view, healing hair trauma involves both outer and inner work.

• Reconnect with your story. Name the messages you inherited. Ask where they came from.
  
• Cognitive reframing. Replace “my hair is a problem” with “my hair tells a story.”
  
• Gradual exposure. Try small natural styles if you’ve been relaxed for decades; let your comfort grow.
  
• Ritualise care. Rituals turn maintenance into meaning; wash days become moments of self-care, not chores.
  
• Find community. Supportive stylists, natural-hair groups, and friends who celebrate you make a difference.
  
• Professional help. If hair changes trigger significant distress, working with a therapist can help process grief and identity shifts.
  

Healing is not about forcing yourself to love every strand overnight. It is about curiosity, practice, and reclaiming agency.

Practical tips I’ve learned in three months of micro locs

• Start with a trusted stylist who respects your choices.
  
• Learn basic maintenance so you can care at home—wax, palm-rolling or interlocking basics.
  
• Be patient: locs take time to settle and show their texture.
  
• Moisture and scalp care are crucial—shea, light oils, and gentle cleansing.
  
• Protect at night with a satin scarf or pillowcase.
  
• Celebrate small wins: the first braid-free morning, a new curl pattern, a child’s curiosity.

Questions to reflect on (for you and your daughters)

• What did you hear about your hair as a child?
  
• Which messages shaped your choices—comfort, survival, pride or habit?
  
• What do you want your daughters to inherit instead?
  
• How can your workplace or school be more inclusive of Black hair?
  

Your hair is not a problem to be solved. It is a story to be met.

We are taught to judge differences with suspicion, whether they be colour, texture, style. Hair is an intimate place where that suspicion meets our daily lives. Choosing to meet your hair again is not a trend; it is a reclamation.

I’m learning my hair’s rhythm, its voice, its weather. I am teaching my daughters to listen rather than fix, to play rather than hide. If you’ve been perming, pressing or hiding for years, meeting your hair will feel strange at first. That strangeness is a sign you are learning something new about yourself.

Good hair is healthy hair. Full stop.

But hair is also a mirror. It reflects history, resilience and beauty. Let’s teach our daughters how to look into that mirror and recognise their crowns for what they are: not obstacles, not curiosities, but parts of who they are meant to be.

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