And that means that we had to be our biggest cheerleaders. We couldn’t walk in and say, […] here’s this lipstick. It’s great. We had to say […] Black women have been neglected for decades, but we outspend our white counterparts on beauty by upwards of 80 percent. So imagine what this brand is going to be worth. Imagine how much she’s going to be willing to spend when I put a lipstick that was made for her in front of her, right?

That’s what we had to say. And that’s how you convince people that it’s worth it to work with you. When you’re placing a two-thousand-unit order, when a homeboy down the street is placing a half-a-million-unit order, right? So it takes a lot of grit, and luckily we have that.¹¹⁹

Therefore, for Black women, often the crafting of our own beauty image and understanding that, although we navigate a society that doesn’t tend to reflect our physical beauty, our beauty radiates from within, is crucial. In KJ Miller’s case, it came from a passion for entrepreneurship, a love of Black women and our needs, and finding ways to meet those needs. For many of us, it comes from the images we see on social media that tend to be more representative of our cultural aesthetic. as well as from the images we surround ourselves with on a daily basis. The walls of my home office are filled with images of and affirmations about Black beauty and African culture. I want every moment I can to reinforce, in both my intentional consumption of images reflecting my beauty as well as affirming and validating it to myself, that I am perfectly and wonderfully made. Being intentional in that practice has been one of the foundational ways of increasing my emotional well-being and boosting my confidence in my day-to-day interactions with people in the majority who do not look like me.

To celebrate my own beauty and Blackness, I intentionally immersed myself in the African diaspora’s concept of beauty. This emphasis on traditional beauty celebrated within our Black community has not only enriched my personal understanding but also underscored the broader societal discourse. I am every Black woman who came before me, and I am every Black woman who will come after me. Centering our culture and focusing on the beauty that resides within it keeps me glowing, with melanin popping every single day.

Being intentional about this practice is essential to countering the negative images and stereotypes we encounter. A particular moment on The Unlearning with Lindsey T. H. Jackson series sparked introspection for me. The host asked a question I found myself unable to answer: “When was the last time you felt beautiful?” In the weeks that followed, I grappled with that silence. I decided to stop waiting for others’ validation, a scarcity in the predominantly white spaces we navigate today. Instead, I started by telling myself I was beautiful in the mirror every morning. Initially, very simply, “You know what? You’re pretty!” I flashed a brilliant white smile at my reflection. I winked at myself. I poked out my tongue and crossed my eyes! I blew myself kisses. I wanted to counteract anything and everything I would see in the world that day that told me otherwise. I wanted to remind myself how much there is to love about the face I see looking back at me in the mirror.

Tracey Owens Patton, Director of African American and Diaspora Studies and a professor of communication in the Department of Communication and Journalism at the University of Wyoming, is a notable figure in this discussion. She advocates for using Afrocentric theory as a tool to challenge the hegemonic White standard of beauty through Black beauty liberation. Afrocentric theory is used in a dynamic way that allows one to look at the beauty diversity within Black women, instead of treating all Black women as a monolithic group. As with standpoint theory, which encourages viewing the world from the perspectives of marginalized groups, Afrocentric theory empowers individuals to assert their own experiences and identities, thereby resisting the dominance of mainstream culture. Finally, Afrocentric theory allows one to see the diversity among Black women in terms of body image, body size, hair, and skin color because of the focus on valuing the personal experience, allowing one to name and define her own experience(s). Through embracing alternatives, Afrocentric theory shatters the myth that Black women constitute a monolithic group because one is allowed to consider intragroup diversity.

With its focus on humanity, the diversity one can find through Afrocentric theory is transformative. Afrocentric theory is important because it “embraces an alternative set of realities, experiences, and identities.”¹²⁰ One need not necessarily be African or African American to embrace Afrocentricity and conduct Afrocentric research.¹²¹ Not only can a woman exercise agency with her beauty choices, but Afrocentricity creates a performative space of creativity and acceptance that has room for all types of beauty because it is no longer in the context of a Euro-supremacist framework. There is not an adherence to any beauty standard, but a celebration of the self. This celebration of self is challenged by Eurocentric beauty standards of body image, hair, and race.¹²²

Make no mistake about it, one of the beautiful things about Afrocentric theory is the recognition that Black folk are not a monolith, and by extension, Black women and our perceptions of ourselves reside in the framework of beauty outside the construct of a white Eurocentric lens. For Black women, this means that we can be united in the understanding that, despite different shades of melanin, hair textures, and choices in how we style our hair, or even our body shape and size, we can choose to express our beauty in any way that feels right to us in our creative celebration of a beauty that radiates from within. By embracing this philosophy, we are no longer the proverbial Jiggaboos versus Wannabes, like the feuding factions of college students in Spike Lee’s School Daze. We reject the destructive construct of colorism, which has been used as a weapon to favor lighter skin tones. This preference is based on a flawed idea that proximity to whiteness is somehow better, but we know that’s a fallacy. Our beauty doesn’t need validation from such arbitrary standards. We can never be them, and wouldn’t want to be even if we could. But we have to stop molding our beauty standards around what is unattainable, even if only in some subconscious desire to be seen and validated. No more good hair. No more light eyes make you a prize. But conversely, no more weave-shaming or fat-shaming. Instead, we should embrace the beauty we already have in such abundance that our sun-kissed skin has been admired for ages, since the very beginning of time.

I’ve been known to rock a good wig—burgundy, pink, or honey brown. I used to buy Brazilian hair at a huge store in South Miami, where they sewed the hair right on the weft. I’ve had Poetic Justice jumbo braids, beautiful Bantu knots, and microbraids that took seven hours. I refused to take them out forever because I needed to get my money’s worth and couldn’t find anyone to help me!

I’ve worn twist-outs, braid-outs, afros, roller sets, blow-outs, cornrows, and knotless plaits. I don’t think there is a type of hair style or a way of wearing my hair, natural or otherwise, that I haven’t tried. But I’ve definitely always had a rather tenuous relationship with my hair. Always praying for it to grow, then cutting it off because I couldn’t figure out what to do with it. Or it was getting on my nerves. Or it was too expensive to go to the salon every week, wasting my precious time and money for a wash and set to maintain my laid-and-slayed top-shelf relaxer.

I did my first big chop in 2005. It was the beginning of the natural-hair movement, and social media had just begun to take off. I watched YouTube relentlessly, finding natural-hair gurus who would bring me to the promised land of embracing the true texture of my hair. I was anxious to learn more about the hair that sprouted from my scalp. I had never seen it or touched it as an adult. I couldn’t remember the texture except from vague memories of sitting between my mother’s legs on the floor as she meticulously braided it. And of course, the times when she permitted me to have it straightened for a special occasion. But thinking about how special it felt when she would slowly comb through my curls and intricately braid my tresses was intriguing to me. I wanted to recapture that feeling for myself.

Finally, we come to our crowning glory in our exploration of self-image, shaped by beauty standards imposed by a society where we have been both racialized and minoritized. At the top of our heads is our halo of hair, which defies gravity! Most of us, as Black women, have had a conflicted relationship with our curls since childhood. We have often seen our hair as part of the friction we have to navigate in an already complicated world. Our hair is part creative expression, but it has to be tamed to meet the expectations of society. It is part of our Black pride and can also create discomfort, shame, or anxiety about its perception by those in the majority. It grows out of our heads and is a part of us, but it is also seen as a radical form of political expression. And the hair of Black women across the African diaspora has historically had great traditional and cultural significance.

As far back as the early fifteenth century, hairstyles carried rich symbolism within our communities. For tribes like the Wolof, Mende, Mandingo, and Yoruba, the way one wore their hair could tell a story of age, ethnic identity, marital status, community rank, religious beliefs, status in war, and wealth. Hair styling sessions were a bonding time for women. A hairstylist, with their intricate knowledge of the cultural significance and techniques of hair grooming, always held a prominent position in these communities. “The complicated and time-consuming task of hair grooming included washing, combing, oiling, braiding, twisting, and/or decorating the hair with any number of adornments, including cloth, beads, and shells. The process could last several hours, sometimes several days.”

As the world began to globalize and cultures intersected, the significance of these hairstyles came into play. The most common hairstyles Europeans encountered when they began exploring the western coast of Africa in the mid-1400s included “braids, plaits, patterns shaved into the scalp, and any combination of shells, flowers, beads, or strips of material woven into the hair.” During this time period, hair was not only a cosmetic concern, but “its social, aesthetic, and spiritual significance has been intrinsic to their sense of self for thousands of years.” However, with the tragic advent of the Atlantic slave trade, the cultural significance of hair became a target. Realizing the prominent role hair played in the lives of western Africans, the first thing enslavers did was shave their heads. This was an unspeakable crime for Africans because the people were shorn of their identity.

Throughout the centuries of slavery, scarves became a practical alternative for covering kinky, unstyled hair or hair that suffered from patchy baldness, breakage, or disease. In households, various materials like bacon grease and butter were used to condition and soften the hair, prepare it for straightening, and make it shine. Cornmeal and kerosene were used as scalp cleaners, and coffee became a natural dye for women.

The type of work that enslaved Africans did frequently determined their hairstyles. If they were in the field and lived in separate slave quarters, “the women wore head rags, and the men took to shaving their heads, wearing straw hats, or using animal shears to cut their hair short.” If enslaved Africans worked directly with the white population in roles such as barbers, cooks, or housekeepers, they often styled their hair similarly to their white counterparts. For example, if they worked in the “big house,” they were required to have a “neat and tidy appearance or risk the wrath of the master, so men and women wore tight braids, plaits, and cornrows.”

The forced adoption of white hairstyles, especially straight hair, held a multitude of implications within the Black community. It wasn’t so much a preference as a survival strategy; straighter hair was often associated with the status of a free person. Light-skinned enslaved Africans who managed to escape “tried to pass themselves off as free, hoping their European features would be enough to convince bounty hunters that they belonged to that privileged class.” According to historians, emulating whiteness offered a certain amount of protection. In addition, enslaved individuals who were lighter-skinned and had straighter hair often worked inside the plantation houses. This work was generally less physically demanding than the tasks assigned to slaves in the fields. These individuals also had better access to clothes, education, and food. Sometimes, they were even promised freedom upon the master’s death.

However, the “jealous mistress of the manor often shaved off the [light-skinned female house slave’s] lustrous mane of hair [as a punishment], indicating that white women too understood the significance of long, kink-free hair.” So, adopting many white European traits was essential to survival, e.g., free vs. slave; employed vs. unemployed; educated vs. uneducated; upper class vs. poor.

Opinions about hair straightening were split within the Black community. Some viewed it as an unfortunate attempt to emulate white standards, equating the practice with self-hatred and shame.¹²³ However, most Black women felt straightened hairstyles were not about emulating whites, but having modern hairstyles. Madame C. J. Walker was one of the more popularly known hair stylists who helped African American women achieve modern hairstyles. In the twentieth century, the 1905 invention of Madame C. J. Walker’s hair softener, which accompanied a hair-straightening comb, was all the rage. Hair straightening was a way to challenge the predominant nineteenth-century belief that Black beauty was ugly. According to Noliwe Rooks, academic, author, and the L. Herbert Ballou University Professor and chair of Africana Studies at Brown University, “Due to pressure from society, African Americans struggled with issues of inferiority, beauty, and the meaning of particular beauty practices. Walker attempted to shift the significance of hair away from concerns about disavowing African ancestry.”¹²⁴

Hair straightening has continued to be a controversial beauty move by some in the African American community, particularly after the 1960s and 1970s “Black is Beautiful” social movement. For example, Malcolm X spoke out against hair straightening. He believed that it caused Black people to feel ashamed of their natural beauty and was a means to emulate white standards of beauty.¹²⁵

The “conk” was a major plot device in Spike Lee’s film biography of Malcolm X, based upon Malcolm X’s own condemnation of the hairstyle in his autobiography, due to its implications of the superiority of a more “white” appearance and because of the pain the process causes and the possibility of receiving severe burns to the scalp.¹²⁶ We probably all remember the famous scene from the movie Malcolm X, where actor Denzel Washington plays the title role and demonstrates the torturous process of straightening his hair into a “conk.” The conk was a hairstyle popular among African American men from the 1920s up to the early to mid-1960s. Conks were often styled as large pompadours, although other men chose to simply slick their straightened hair back, allowing it to lie flat on their heads. Regardless of the styling, conks required a considerable amount of effort to maintain; a man often had to wear a do-rag of some sort at home to absorb sweat or other agents to keep them from causing his hair to revert prematurely to its natural state.¹²⁷

The conk involved chemically straightening naturally “kinky” hair with a homemade gel relaxer known as congolene. The process was complex and required considerable care and maintenance. The initially homemade hair straightener gel was made from the extremely corrosive chemical lye, which was often mixed with eggs and potatoes. The hairstylist had to wear gloves, and the solution exposure was timed just right on the client’s head and then thoroughly rinsed out with cold water to avoid chemical burns. Malcolm X’s reflections serve as a stark reminder of how much these standards have influenced our sense of identity—often to the point where we feel lost—by pressuring us to conform and alter our natural features. It underlines the importance of reclaiming and celebrating our natural beauty, for it is a crucial part of our cultural heritage and individual identities.¹²⁸

The first wave of the natural-hair movement emerged during the tumultuous 1960s, a time of profound social and political change. During this era, the “Black Is Beautiful” movement arose as a cultural counter-narrative to mainstream beauty standards. This movement assured Black women and men that their skin, facial features, and natural hair were admirable—as is. It was a powerful response to the societal pressures and norms that privileged Eurocentric features and standards.

The activist Marcus Garvey encouraged Black women to embrace their natural kinks, arguing that copying white Eurocentric standards of beauty denigrated the beauty of Black women. “Don’t remove the kinks from your hair! Remove them from your brain!”

High-profile activists like Angela Davis, along with many others within the Black community, sported an afro as a sign of Black power and rebellion against white American beauty standards. This hairstyle became emblematic of the wider resistance against oppressive beauty norms. Wearing an afro became a weapon in the fight for racial equality as well as a public declaration of self-love and solidarity within the Black community. Whether rocking afros or pressed hair, Black protesters demanded the signing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which “ended segregation in public places and banned employment discrimination.” The Act also created the EEOC, which operates “as the lead enforcement agency in the area of workplace discrimination.” When the EEOC was founded fifty-five years ago, the federal government’s primary concern was that Black people be granted equal access to public workplaces. It didn’t foresee that Black people’s natural hair would need equal access as well.

The first cases of natural-hair discrimination wouldn’t appear until the next decade. In the 1976 case of Jenkins v. Blue Cross Mutual Hospital Insurance, the US Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit upheld a race discrimination lawsuit against an employer for bias against afros. The appeals court agreed that workers were entitled to wear afros under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act.

While afros were technically allowed in workplaces, the social pressure to emulate Eurocentric hair permeated American society, impacting Black women’s hair grooming decisions. The 1980s and 1990s ushered in more Black women sporting pressed and permed hair, reflecting a resurgence of Eurocentric beauty standards. This trend was driven, in part, by prevalent hair-care ads on TV and in magazines that encouraged Black women to alter the texture of their hair. The beauty industry, in reinforcing these norms, exerted a significant influence on societal perceptions of Black hair and identity. However, this time period also witnessed the popularization of styles like braids and cornrows. Images of Black women celebrities showcasing braids—like Janet Jackson in Poetic Justice—encouraged Black women to braid their tresses. Wearing these styles came with a price, as they created a legal firestorm. In 1981, a Black woman took American Airlines to court because the company demanded she not wear her hair in braids. The court sided with the airline, stating that braids were not an immutable racial characteristic—unlike the afro. Less than a decade later, the Hyatt Regency used this ruling to make employee Cheryl Tatum resign after she refused to take out the cornrows she wore to work. The American Airlines ruling established a standing legal precedent.¹²⁹

But, despite the legal challenges and implications of relaxed hair, wearing wigs, or using hair weaves to add length or density to our hair, researchers have clarified that straightening one’s hair is not synonymous with racial shame or “acting white.” In fact, the authors of Shifting: The Double Lives of Black Women in America, Charisse Jones and Kumea Shorter-Gooden, argue that “not every woman who decides to straighten her hair or change the color of her eyes by wearing contacts believes that beauty is synonymous with whiteness. Trying on a new look, even one often associated with Europeans, does not automatically imply self-hatred. It is possible to dye your brown tresses platinum and still love your Blackness.”¹³⁰

On our Black Power Moves podcast, celebrity hair stylist Eugene Davis shared his experiences shaping the hair trends in the music industry during the 1990s. He recalls introducing lace front wigs into the mainstream, a move that led to an industry-wide trend, and collaborating with artists like Lil Kim to create bold, color-coordinated hairstyles. Davis’s work, particularly with wigs, contributed to shifting perceptions of Black hair and beauty.

…My first assignment was Lil Kim. Before she came out, me and Lil Kim hit it off. And next thing I know, […] I was doing Biggie Smalls’ “One More Chance” video. I had no idea who Biggie Smalls was. I walked in with a whole bunch of hair into his cabin, and he looked at me and he said, “Are you here to do my hair?”

I said, yeah, I got lots of wigs […] that kind of broke the ice. And of course, “One More Chance” was a video with all the celebrities that were in it. And that was my introduction to Mary, Aaliyah, […] Changing Faces. So many different artists.

And then from that point on, I was being called and utilized in […] the music world as a hairstylist. And that’s how I got the opportunity to do “Crush on You,” “Ladies Night” […] I can’t even name. There’s so many videos that I did at the time, […] but the door was wide open.

But that also is how I got a chance to introduce [them] to wigs because at the time, people didn’t understand. […] They were like, “Oh yeah, Grandma wears wigs.” I was like, “No.” There’s lace fronts. And I got introduced to that from watching RuPaul and having a friend take me backstage. And I was looking at it. RuPaul was like, “Oh, look! It just comes up.” I was like, “Oh my God! What’s that?”

So, then I was told where I could find it. […] And from that point on, I introduced them to lace fronts. And then the industry got wind of it. And before I knew [it], everybody was doing lace fronts and look at it right now, it is like a hot commodity. But I never claimed at the time that I was one of the pioneers for that because […] just how I am. I’m not one of those people who say, oh yeah, I started this or I did it first, I’m just not that person.

Black women started to wear these bold colors. It all started with Lil Kim in that video […] and she was just like, “Okay, you know what? This is what the stages are doing. What can we do that will shock and just make a change in how people view us and our videos?” And that’s when we came up with changing the wigs with the backgrounds. […] And […] we cut them and we styled them and we put it on me and my team and put it on Lil Kim. And it just became a legendary video.¹³¹

While stylists like Davis were pushing boundaries in the music industry, a broader cultural shift was taking place. The 2000s welcomed the second wave of the natural-hair movement. Films and the emergence of social media were the movement’s catalysts. It fueled a cultural shift that has caused legions of Black women to abandon their perms and pressing combs. YouTube and natural-hair blogs allowed Black women to discuss their hair-care journeys, share hair tutorials, and connect with other women—many of whom were learning to care for their natural hair for the first time. In “YouTube Communities and the Promotion of Natural Hair Acceptance Among Black Women,” Cameron Jackson wrote that the social media platform not only enabled newly minted naturalistas to “disseminate information about natural hair” but also caused “a shift in the cultural understanding of natural hair.”¹³²

Beyond cultural and personal identity, there are health considerations that add another layer to the complex issue of Black hair. In a recent study funded by the US National Institutes of Health, researchers used data from more than 33,000 women taking part in the Sister Study, a large, ongoing study looking for risk factors for breast cancer and other health conditions.

Women enrolled in the study were asked about their use of different kinds of hair products over the previous year, including hair dyes, straighteners, relaxers, and permanents or body waves.

After an average of nearly eleven years of follow-up, women who reported using hair-straightening products were almost twice as likely to have developed uterine cancer as those who did not, after adjusting for other factors that might affect risk. Women who reported frequent use of straighteners (more than four times in the previous year) were about two and a half times more likely to develop uterine cancer.

The researchers did not find links between uterine cancer and the use of other hair products, including hair dyes, highlights, and perms. Data from the Sister Study has been used in the past to look for possible links between hair products and other cancers, especially cancers that grow in response to hormones. This includes breast and ovarian cancers as well as uterine cancer.

Concerns have been raised about possible links between some hair products and these cancers because some of the chemicals used in hair products might be absorbed through the scalp and have estrogen-like properties in the body. Some hair products might also contain other chemicals that have been linked to cancer, such as formaldehyde. Previous research from the Sister Study has also linked straightener use with a higher risk of breast cancer.

In the current study, about 60 percent of the women who reported using straighteners in the previous year self-identified as being Black. While the study didn’t find a difference in the link between straightener use and uterine cancer risk across races, it’s important to highlight the potential greater impact on Black women. This disparity stems from the fact that Black women are significantly more likely to use these products, a trend influenced by long-standing societal pressures to conform to Eurocentric beauty standards.¹³³

It’s important to remember that these hair stories are deeply personal and vary greatly. Like many Black women, I too have gone back and forth between wearing my hair in its natural state, relaxing it, and wearing weaves and wigs. Ultimately, like everything else we do, our hair has become an expression of who we are, rather than defining our racial identity or restricting the choices that we make. Our hair choices should not be limited to natural styles as the only valid form of embracing our identity. I challenge this perspective. Any choice that we willingly make that brings us joy and confidence and allows us to operate at our best is valid. The key is to make these choices for the right reasons and without any associated mental or emotional distress. This is especially important as we navigate predominantly white spaces where our appearance and identity are often scrutinized. We can make our own choices to determine what our identity means to us.

In conclusion, the journey of Black hair is neither linear nor monolithic. It’s a complex, multifaceted account that speaks to our unique identities, our struggles, and our victories. Whether embracing natural textures or experimenting with wigs, weaves, or colors, the essence is that Black women continue to define and redefine their beauty on their own terms. As for me, I’m on my third big chop, and I’ve never felt more at home with my hair. This freedom to choose and express ourselves is the ultimate form of power.

Despite what society may say or what I see in the media or popular culture, in the words of India Arie, “I am not my hair.” I am free to wear it as curly or straight as I want to, and I can love it as much or as little as I want in the ways that I choose or do not, because I define myself. Of course, it would be naive to assert that there would be no pushback from the majority culture about the aesthetics of our hair. “Professionalism,” “beauty,” and, by extension, the appearance of our hair has never fit the mold, which is why I encourage breaking the mold and leaning on our ancestral tradition of creating our own construct for what beauty means. It’s not defined by our skin color—light versus dark—the shape of our lips, the roundness in our hips, or the texture of our hair—kinky and coily versus straight and laid. It emanates from within, and true power and emotional well-being come from embracing ourselves in whatever form we choose to appear, even though we know those choices may not always be accepted or supported in the spaces we inhabit.

Adjoa B. Asamoah, one of the cofounders of the CROWN Coalition, established in early 2019, works toward expanding legal protections for people of color who choose to wear their natural hair without fear of discrimination. When I spoke with her for EBONY Media, Asamoah emphasized the importance of the CROWN Movement: “It’s about outlawing race-based hair discrimination… It is acknowledging our racial identity… There is no biological basis for race the way we use it, but that doesn’t mean that racism is not very real.” She stressed the specific problems race-based hair discrimination creates, from hindering the thriving of our children in school to reinforcing Eurocentric standards that excuse bias in employment and promotions. And she acknowledged the challenges still ahead: “We have a lot of work to continue, but we have been here before. We are cut out to do it. It does not mean that we are not exhausted. We have to remember that rest is part of the movement as well.”¹³⁴

The sentiment of rest being part of the movement also echoes Audre Lorde’s eloquent statement: “Rest is resistance.” Rest means that we shouldn’t have to fight against our own natural proclivity for expressing our creativity through the dimensions of our hair. It’s a mosaic with all of the beautiful hues of Black, brown, and anything else we choose. It’s not necessary for us to sport an afro like Angela Davis to embrace our beautiful Black identity. But we also shouldn’t be forced to wear a wig over our natural cornrows because we are afraid of how we will be received. So, we move forward in ways that allow us to embrace the ways we show up that feel good to us. The primary focus should be on our well-being and not on the expectations of others.

Not all of us are on the front lines, fighting for our beauty to be seen, accepted, and even legalized. Yet, we all hold power over how we see ourselves, treat ourselves, and speak to ourselves.

Our emotional balance depends heavily on the way we celebrate our own beauty. It relies on our ability to rest easy in the knowledge of our rich ancestral history and cultural tradition of uplifting our beauty. To be a Black woman is to carry a legacy of resilience, creativity, and strength.

Our beauty is more than skin deep, and our inability to celebrate it in its full richness can lead to unhealed trauma. But we have the power to turn this around. When I look in the mirror, I no longer rush past my reflection. Instead, I take the time to study the curves of my lips and nose, to appreciate each part of my face that makes me who I am.