My hair is my crown, a truth I can never deny or change. Growing up, my mother used chemical relaxers on my hair, which was the trend at the time. Every girl in the neighborhood had their hair straightened with these products, and my mother favored the well-known Dark n’ Lovely. I believed it was designed specifically for black hair, and I was one of the few girls around whose hair grew long. Elders would often ask if I was wearing a wig, and some even went so far as to check if it was really mine. There were times when people questioned my racial background; those familiar with my dad would say I looked mixed, even though my parents always identified me as black, encouraging me to take pride in my heritage. 

Getting my hair relaxed was a normal part of life until the day I had to cut it for the first time after my father’s passing. I was told it was a cultural ritual to mourn, and it broke my heart to lose my long, relaxed hair. After that, my mother decided not to relax it anymore, and it grew into a thick 4C texture. Managing it was a challenge, but I didn’t mind having my hair in its natural state. Little did I know that some kids at school would mock it. They called it “kaffir hair” or “isihluthu,” and some even said it looked ugly, comparing me to men from KwaShembe, the Nazareth.

My hair became so coarse that my teacher threatened to cut it if I didn’t come to school with it trimmed. Even family members joined in on the teasing. One time, my cousin took a relaxer and insisted on “fixing” my hair because she thought it looked bad. I was baffled by her actions since I had never been bothered by how my hair looked. Unfortunately, the relaxer burned my scalp, causing me immense pain, a stark contrast to the times my mother relaxed my hair without any issues. I was left feeling unhappy about the whole experience.

I wasn’t thrilled with how my hair appeared, yet my neighbors and classmates showered me with compliments about its length. My teacher even remarked that I shouldn’t have hair that long at my age. I was left puzzled, wondering why everyone seemed so concerned about my hair when I had always loved it. This was during my primary school years, but everything shifted when I entered high school, which was an all-girls institution. Suddenly, my hair, which had transformed into a beautiful 4C afro, became the center of attention. Both students and teachers were fascinated, often asking me what products I used to achieve such growth.

I simply told them I used Dark and Lovely moisturizer, and their disbelief was palpable. Conversations about race would arise, and I would explain that I’m Black, but some identified me as colored due to my surname. Some teachers would even say, “You’re colored, that’s why your hair looks like that.” I faced challenges at local salons too, where they sometimes refused to wash my hair and insisted I get a relaxer for easier management. I always stood my ground.

Even my friends occasionally expressed jealousy, making comments about how my hair wouldn’t last forever. Despite all the negativity, my love for my hair never wavered. I refused to let anyone convince me there was something wrong with it. In fact, my hair was a connection to my dad, which brought me immense comfort. My hair is my crown, and I wear it with pride.