I am looking for a hairdresser. Now, before you curl your lip and click off this page, bear with me; I am going somewhere with this.
Twice, I have taken to my social media, asking my contacts to refer me to their hairdressers. So far, I have received three responses in total. All were from men. Did I take up these suggestions? No. Why? These men visit the barber. As such, if they were providing recommendations for a barber, I would happily take these up. This sometimes makes me wonder — are the women on my timeline gatekeeping their hairdressers, or perhaps they just underestimate how much this means to me? I thought girl power was all about sisterhood and whatnot. But then again, sisters barely share their stuff. So, that can be a plausible excuse. I do not have sisters, so I do not know. I digress. To convince the women on my timeline to plug me to their hairdressers, I will make a case about hair. Hopefully, at the end of it, I will have sure recommendations for hairdressers from women.
I remember the first time I got my hair plaited. It was the successful result of an almost night-long battle with my father, who had sworn, based on his staunch Christian upbringing, that no daughter of his would look like Jezebel with plaited hair. At this moment, I am tempted to dive into a treatise on the harm Christianity has done to women, my upbringing, my family, and the African continent, but…I will hold myself. This is about hair. It is about identity, battles, and the echoes of bygone eras.
Growing up, I was not allowed to keep my hair. I was at the barbershop every two weeks. The priest of our home believed that keeping hair makes a girl a harlot. One time, my cousin got purple knitting thread and made makeshift braids on my head. I thought I looked really pretty even though these “braids” were really painful to install. You should have seen my father that day. He roared, thundered, and caused a storm in the home. We were lectured, threatened, beaten, prayed for, and then forcefully whisked away to the barber’s for a “cleansing.” We came back clean-shaven with very little prospect of being harlots. The priest of our home made sure of it.
Fast forward to a few years later, when I was about to join high school, my father came home a few weeks before my admission date and gave me money to go to the barber’s. I refused and said that I would be plaiting my hair. And a fight ensued. This priest of ours looked at me as though I had asked for both his kidneys. He asked me if I wanted to become a harlot (but not in those words). He raged and preached about children obeying their parents. I objected, stating that the same good book he was quoting noted that parents are not to vex their children. He shouted about the women in Sodom and Gomorrah, and I shouted back about a woman’s glory being in her hair. My mother smiled at this one. She had, that afternoon, read this verse to me. It was almost like she saw the fight coming.
My mother has really soft, silky, and beautiful hair. I loved watching her get her hair done. I loved unbraiding her hair and washing it. On Saturdays, she’d break out the basket of avocados she had stashed to ripen in some dark corner of the kitchen, and we would make hair pudding. She would apply the pudding on my head with very short, scanty hairs and do the same to hers. Then, we’d dig into the whole shampoo and conditioning regimen. To date, washing my hair is a practice I hold sacred. It often baffled me that my father said hair made women bad, yet my mother had long and beautiful hair. His words accused my mother of many things.
On the evening that we fought about hair, I was determined not to lose. For nights on end, I had dreamt of the day that I would get my hair braided at the salon and what my first silk press would look like. I had been tending to the wild crop of hair on my head as though it was a newborn child. I had saved monies for my first salon appointment, and I would be damned if that money was not spent for that specific purpose. I fought hard and valiantly against this priest of our home. We exchanged bible verses, African traditions, philosophies, and words that did not make sense. When our exchange of words and wisdom did not seem to bear fruit, my father resorted to threats. He threatened me, my mother, the family cat. He even threatened the cushions and chairs. But I was determined to win this one. So he stormed off into the night, stating that if he returned from work the next day and my hair was not shaved off, I would rue the day I was born. I said sawa because those are the words he wanted to hear, but the next day, he met me at the door, returning from the salon with my purple braids. The man was livid. But he could see that I was determined to die for this cause. He gave up. When I speak of battles, I am referring to these hair-ry rebellions where a Kenyan girl, with the spirit of a matatu conductor refusing to give out change, asserts her right, her voice, her identity.
It would not be the last time I was fighting for hair. While some people fight for independence, human rights, or improved costs of living *side-eye Azimio*, I fought for hair. Teachers in school often recommended shaving hair as the severest punishment for misbehavior. Oh, how we raged against such teachers! We cursed them in our juvenile tongues and condemned their erroneous ways. When the records are called for those who fought for dignity, call my name among them alongside the parent who took to Court to defend his daughter’s right to keep her dreadlocks while in school because of her religion. In the name of Jah, we conquer!!
For a long time, shaving girls’ heads has been used to silence us and keep us in check, to rob us of dignity. And still, we rise. We shave our heads when we want to change our lives. When we want to reinvent and reclaim ourselves, we change our hair. We color it. Shave it. Braid it in new ways. We invent goddess braids. We lock it. They know how powerful our hair is and what it means to us. As such, when they want to silence us, they shave our crowns. Our hair.
Of course, this powerful rant would not be complete without a short history lesson on African hair. You see, long before the scars of colonialism, hair in Africa was a profound marker of identity — signifying tribe, status, age, and even spiritual beliefs. It was passed down through generations, each style whispering tales of ancestry and spirituality. However, the dark age of the Transatlantic Slave Trade sought to sever this connection, with enslaved Africans’ crowns often shaved off as an attempt to erase their identities. Yet, despite such oppression, hair became an act of silent resistance. Intricate cornrow patterns on African heads secretly mapped escape routes. By the time of the Civil Rights Movement, the afro emerged not just as a style but as a defiant symbol of Black pride and empowerment. Today, with braids, locs, and natural styles popping up more than “boda boda” riders at a traffic light, African hair remains a vibrant testament to the whispers of our ancestors, our pride and resilience and the indomitable spirit of a continent.
Over the years, my hair has grown to mean so much to me. The first time I ever felt really cared for and pampered was when I got my first perm. The hairdresser was a soft-spoken, gentle woman who always tended my hair. She was called Mama Kimberly, and she tended to my hair as though she was brushing gold strands. She massaged my scalp, oiled my hair, and gave me a pink scrunchie to hold my hair with. I almost cried. When I say that physical touch is my love language, I mean this. (Gifts too; they are my love language. *Side-eye hair product prices* )
You know the phrase ‘braiding each other’s hair’ in reference to friendships? Where does it come from? I will tell you. One of the most intimate experiences of bonding with my female friends was when we washed and made each other’s hair. I have a deep and intimate connection with the women who have made my hair. My friend, Wanjiku, made my hair for close to 4 years before she decided to move to a faraway county for work. This was our time together to chat, watch modern family, and become better friends. Remember physical touch? There is an intimacy that comes with hair care. I have shared deeply intimate moments with lovers who tended to my hair. I have a deeply personal and healthy relationship with my hair from the way I tend to it. You can tell I love my hair from the way I touch it. Every time I touch it, I’m not just feeling its texture; I’m traversing its history – like swiping through its ‘M-Pesa’ transaction history – rich, deep, and full of stories!. This relationship is so healthy I am writing a blog piece about it. LOL. I even keep a hair journal. Healthy enough?
My Wakili friends have their unique ways of making submissions and cases in court. I do not know their ways, as I am not a lawyer, but I can tell that they finish their submissions by reiterating their asks. I am looking for a hairdresser, one who will touch my hair and make art from it. Because African hair is art, you can go everywhere with it: goddess braids, knotless braids, boho braids, afros, wigs, spring twists, twist-outs, box cuts, dye, you name it! If you are wondering why I am looking for hairdressers now, yet the battle to make my hair was fought and won 13 years ago, I must mention that the many women who have tended to my hair are now in different places far from me and that I recently ended my loc journey because I did not want goddess braids to go out of fashion before I got to try them out. So, I am sending out this plea to you all: guide me to my next hairdresser, someone who will not just style my hair but will treat it like a loyal customer at a kibandaski – with respect and a hint of “extra soup” for its journey.