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.
Beauty is skin deep, but for Black women, not being able to celebrate our beauty in its full richness can lead to what I describe as “unsealed trauma”—the unresolved emotional wounds that we carry with us. So when I look in the mirror, I’ve started taking my time to study the curves in my lips and nose. I take the time to acknowledge each part of my face. I note the parts of my face that remind me of my father and the ones that look like my mother. Rather than ruminating about how self-conscious I was about my Black features and natural hair growing up, I take the time to think about how beautifully and wonderfully made I truly am. Everything about me is amazing, and that includes the beauty of my face and full body that radiates from inside.
Celebrating our beauty and creating our own narratives about what that looks like is empowering. It involves understanding how much our confidence and self-esteem as humans rest on how we are perceived and accepted. Yet, as Black women, we face the unique challenge of navigating a world that doesn’t necessarily do that.
On the flip side, we are free to uplift each other and ourselves. A casual compliment to a stranger, a “Hey, girl! I love those shoes!” can brighten both her day and ours. I’ve done it on several occasions and felt the joy when she returns a smiling “Thank you!” It’s in these moments that we seize our own narratives of beauty and validation.
Being able to accept compliments is also part of this process. It’s a small but significant step in reframing what it means to be beautiful as we walk in society. This reframing is a constant process, a constant assertion that everything about us—from the top of our heads to the soles of our feet—is beautiful without exception.
I still remember being in high school and reading and reciting Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman.” The lines, “I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size… Phenomenal woman, that’s me,” resonate with me even today. The feeling that surges through me when I see another girl who looks like me reciting these lines is transcendent.
I recited this poem, affirming myself in the mirror, and I came to realize the peace that stems from self-acceptance and love. Celebrating my beauty—my fluffy afro, full lips, hips, and nose—became a cherished ritual. It’s a practice that has helped me in my journey toward self-acceptance. I am loving myself, and I am giving myself permission to look in the mirror and admire everything I see. A part of this journey to self-acceptance has been uncovering my feelings about myself, not only in my physical form but also in my thoughts and feelings. Unpacking all of these emotions has been instrumental in helping to heal the little girl inside who never had a Black baby doll and, quite frankly, doesn’t need one to validate my beauty anymore, because the woman I see looking back at me in the mirror is more than enough!
Learning to love ourselves means that we understand just how much power can be ascribed to our beauty and femininity, which has been counter to the archetype of the strong, asexual Black woman. The Strong Black Woman, Jezebel, and Sapphire are simply archetypes. They are stereotypes used to disempower us, and we can acknowledge them without subscribing to them or acting them out based on society’s perception of what it means to be us. We determine that through our own agency. We are in control of our own personal stories, choices, and reactions to what we see around us. I choose the feminine divine because I am a queen. I am the beginning and the end. Once I’ve accepted that reality, there is no other that affects my existence.
Black women have been viewed as beautiful and a representation of womanhood throughout time. However, most of us are not aware of just how powerful the matriarchal role of Black women has always been. We are aware of how strong mothers and grandmothers were and are. But how much do we know about our ancestral mothers, and how much love, divine wisdom, and contentment flow from how secure they were in every way, and the legacy of well-being that we can draw just from our knowledge of their eternal presence? Part of that process involves focusing on harnessing the beautiful feminine divinity that is a central component of African culture across the diaspora. The love we find there is infinite if we’re open to how much peace it can provide.
journaling questions 
1.How have societal perceptions and media representation of Black women influenced your own self-image and understanding of beauty?
2.Can you recall specific moments when you felt challenged or empowered by prevailing beauty standards? How did these moments shape your relationship with your self-image?
3.How do you believe the historical oppression of Black women has affected the collective self-image of Black women today?
4.What strategies or approaches do you believe are most effective in combating the negative impact of historical and ongoing oppression on Black women’s self-worth and image?
5.How familiar are you with Afrocentric theory, and in what ways might it offer a healing or empowering perspective on self-image?
6.How have you personally experienced or observed colorism within your community, and what steps can be taken to counteract this form of prejudice?
7.How has your community influenced your understanding of beauty and self-worth, both positively and negatively?
8.Considering societal perceptions, media, and historical contexts, what messages would you want to impart to younger Black women to foster a positive self-image?
9.How can sharing personal narratives and stories among Black women help in reshaping the broader narrative around Black beauty and self-image?
10.How do you think intersecting identities, such as sexuality, class, or nationality, further influence the self-image of Black women in the face of societal perceptions and beauty standards?
affirmations 
