I Finally Escaped the Afro-Hair Salon Industrial Complex.

Every time an African girl walks into a hair salon the gods toss a die. Will she suffer from heat damage, traction alopecia, hair breakage or discontent.

I went through all that, took a pause and now all my edges have grown back. I finally have hair in places on my forehead that I once thought impossible, and fortunately for me, I am never going back. My hair journey, just like many other African girls’, has been full of twists and turns or should I say twists and braids.

My mother started growing my hair when I joined nursery school, but even then it was not easy. I hated when my hair was combed, I hated the blow dryer heat, and I dreaded that last step where they added grease or hair oil before straightening it down to an almost silky finish. The back of my head suffered, because that is where I have less hair.

The pain would soon transcend into tight cornrows or braids and not sleeping well for three days. This was the routine every four weeks. I turned ten and said, you know what, I looked cute and happier when I shaved my hair two years ago to treat shingles and dandruff. I will do it again this time, and I will love it.

When I was eight, I had no choice. I kept asking my mum if my scalp was healed so I could get back to growing my hair. She used to shave me at home with scissors every two weeks so I could have a clean slate to apply the dermatological cream to clear the shingles. I felt naked, almost like a boy. Most girls in my class kept short hair, but it did not help my case. My siblings had bun length hair, and even though shaving was a break from the constant pain, I felt like it wasn't worth it. Beauty can be painful at times.

Eventually I grew my hair back, but I had already tasted freedom, and I could not help but go back. Maybe if someone actually listened when I said the blow dryer was too hot or the hairstyle was too tight. Maybe if it were possible to just exist in an afro or locked hair. Maybe then I would not have been forced to shave.

When I turned fifteen, in high school, I realised that hair was currency. I tried growing it back. I noticed how girls with long straightened hair looked prettier, were treated better, and were seen as softer, even though this was always under threat. It took a lot of work, making sure their straightened type 4 hair didn't shrink in the 8 weeks of boarding school. Shrinkage was frowned upon, labelled “unkempt” and relaxed hair would also be shaved down. Female teachers could sometimes tell but not always.

Even then, the girls with long hair were always careful, their hair was weaponised against them. If they did anything wrong, failed exams, got suspended, appeared on the noise makers list, or just breathed too loud in front of a teacher, then it would all be shaved down. This created a hierarchy where girls with long hair were automatically associated with discipline and good grades, aside from femininity. When I went out for school functions, I came to realise that boys schools ranked girls schools in terms of hair. Some girls schools had a no hair policy. These girls were deemed less feminine.

Then we had girls schools like mine where girls could keep their hair, so we would be the go to sister school. There was nothing sisterly or brotherly about sister and brother schools. It was mostly about coupled schools, a euphemism I would say. So when we went out for tournaments, festivals, and competitions, girls with long hair would be picked first, and then we would follow.

So I decided, you know, I might as well grow my hair back. After the December holidays, I did not pass by the barber as per my mum’s request. I wore a hat on the eve and left for school in the morning after she had left for work. She thought I had shaved my hair. That term was different compared to the previous ones. I made more friends, even in outings. My hair was not long enough to be put in a bun, but it was long enough to be pushed back, and I felt the difference. I bought a small hair pomade with my pocket money because all this was a secret project. I could finally be like other girls and apply hair oil on the weekends. I was looking forward to when it'll grow to a pony tail.

We went for half term mid February, and the first thing my mum told me when she saw me was, “Hukunyoa?” You did not shave? I said yes. She said, “Uko na mchezo.” I tried begging her. I told her that if I dropped from the top three position of my class, I would shave it on my own. I even promised to be really well behaved, to do as she wanted. But she said, “No, you have to shave. Your dad did not let your sister keep her hair, so you have to shave yours too.” I decided to convince my dad. He said, “Hair is a distraction. Just do as your mum says.”

The entire four days of half term break were just me being reminded to shave. On the day before we went back to school, my mum gave me fifty shillings and told me to go to the barber. When I got there, they told me there was a blackout. For the first time in my life, I loved the idea of a blackout. I went back home thinking nimeponea. Only for the lights to come back late in the evening. My mum called my dad. “Could you drive her to the barber shop, I am here waiting for you.” We drove there, and she instructed the barber to shave my hair down to a number 2. I just sat there, looking at my face with my forehead acne, as pieces of the only thing I loved about my face fell down. What is the point.

I went back to school and lost the few hair privileges I had grown accustomed to. I shaved every half term and opening day without being asked. It hurt less that way. I knew I only had to do this until eighteen.

After high school, I was thrilled to plait my dichuns. It was long enough to be forced into braids. That was my first mistake. Forcing hair into braids made sure I lost my edges every single time. I was also obsessed with high buns. Girls know how it gives your face a snatched look. So not only was I weighing my hair follicles down with heavy braids and kinky hair extensions, I was also pulling them up. Double suicide.

I was not taking hair advice from mum either because, well, shit happens.

Most of the time I used my own savings to plait my hair, and every time I made the wrong decision. Braids, braids with extensions, cornrows with extensions, bun cornrows. And even when my mum took me to the hairdresser, it would not make any difference.

Most Kenyan hairdressers are not trained. They learn by apprenticeship and keep the tradition going. Traditionally, all hair must tightly disappear into the cornrow or braid. You get in, you show them the hairstyle, they do their own thing. Most times you do not like what you get, but it grows into you eventually.

The last time I stepped into a salon was in 2021, and it was for a faux locs hairstyle. Everyone said it was low maintenance and that I would have my hair double in length when I took them out after eight months. I believed them. The entire process was not only expensive, but long and painful. I remember sitting on the salon chair for eight hours, faking comfort. When she was done, none of my edges were to be seen. Everyone said it was done perfectly.

It was indeed low maintenance. When I had new growth, all I had to do was retwist with water and hair gel. Washing them was difficult. They got heavy and weighed me down. After five months, I cut them in half, and after seven months, I took them out alone.It was a nightmare. I used so much leave in conditioner to help with the tangling, but the damage was already done. The part of the hair that was inside the faux loc was now see through and feeble. My edges were also pushed back further. The horror, I had to change my ways.

I was away from home and did not have other people’s opinions clouding the truth and my judgement. I knew I needed to stop doing braided hairstyles. So I bought my first afro curly wig. It was light, and all I had to do was put my hair in four big cornrows. When I came back home, I asked my sister to try out an afro crochet hairstyle on me with spring twists.

I loved it.

It resembled my hair texture and was light and scalp friendly. This became my go to hairstyle until my edges grew back. I still had braided hairstyles every few months and only had my sister do them. There was still some tension.

Eventually, I left home again, this time with a crochet hairstyle that lasted me three months. I was outside the scrutiny of people judging me for having the same hairstyle for more than a month. Hair freedom. I started doing my own hair myself, and one thing about plaiting yourself as a beginner is that you will not do the hairstyle tightly. Plus, no one judged my DIY braids. I learned to crochet my own hair and experiment more with type 4 hair wigs, which I feel suit my style more.

I also did microlocs on myself, and for the first time in my life, I have been wearing my hair out. I have days when I put wigs on, days when I want to switch it up a little, but on most days I am content with just putting my microlocs in a bun and reminiscing on the days they shrunk up so much they were only down to my ears.

Type 4 hair is the most beautiful and most versatile hair, yet we spend years avoiding it. We are convinced that we are doing protective hairstyles when, in truth, people from other backgrounds who grow their hair effortlessly just let their hair be.

I wish I had locked my hair sooner after Form 4. I wish it were even possible to have locked hair since childhood. I never knew my hair could thrive this well. I never knew I could have my hair double its length every year. I am glad I never gave in to the ugly beginner stage, the you will get bored of it comments, the you will lose your edges and it will be too expensive remarks. All I need is eight hours every eight weeks and a retie tool. Washing twice or once a week. And patience.

It took me 25 years to finally learn the truth about my hair. Protective hairstyles are destructive, tight neat hairstyles are damaging and unkempt or frizzy is just plain texturism and internalised racism.

I'm glad I'm here. And I'm loving my locs through every phase.