Untangling the politics of black hair is tough – and trying to explain it to those who have never experienced the intrigue, the questioning, the barrage of unwanted comments, the weird looks and the uninvited hands being plunged into their own hair…is even tougher.
As my acceptance of my own curls has grown over the years, naturally so has my understanding of how to take care of them as well as my knowledge of black hair. I owe a significant amount of credit to one of my best friends who I met at University; a British-Nigerian girl who got me started on the path to really understanding my hair, aged 20. (Thanks Abi!). Because it’s only now I realise four years later as I’m on a quest to find out my own roots, (literally), that I realise all that time spent disparaging my hair was probably down to the fact that I was trying desperately to fit in with what surrounded me and denying my own self in the process.
I was sitting on a beach in Corn Island, Nicaragua last week, planning my writing tasks and messaging friends and family when I thought: is this how to be happy? Have I single-handedly cracked the code to life at 24 years old???
Well, probably not quite yet.
But, I’d just been invited on another press trip, received a nice, juicy pay-check to write a series of travel articles for a content marketing client (I’d been paid before completion for once — anyone who writes knows how much of a rarity this is) and, I’d had an essay in a major newspaper accepted for publication.
I’d put down a deposit on a studio apartment and had just moved into a perfect space steps from the beach, for a fraction of what I’d be paying for rent back home, (a steal at £240 p/m). I realised that I have enough money to support myself in whatever travel endeavours I feel like doing next. I have no-one to answer to and everything to accomplish.