During a conversation with a Black man a few weeks ago, in the presence of another Black woman, it happened. Again. I felt the need to defend my hair length. As soon as the exchange ended, I was haunted. Disturbed by the incessant occurrence of having to exculpate my existence, my beauty. Before I could properly process what I was doing and stop myself, I had JUSTIFIED MY HAIR LENGTH. Justified. As if there was something wrong or ugly about it, as if I was less attractive because my hair length was modest, even average, for a Black girl. A Black man had informed me, proudly and perhaps innocently, in front of another woman with longer hair that his hair had been longer than mine “at one point.”
We’ve all heard or said The Defenses before. “My hair used to be really long BUT.” “That perm my mom forced me to get broke my hair off, girl.” “I told the hairdresser to just cut my split ends and she cut a few inches off. It’ll grow back.” “I did the big chop.” We’ve all cringed at the “bald head scallywag” jokes on the middle school playground, subconsciously brushed down gelled up baby hairs to ensure ourselves that we had edges, dodge that jab. Why is brushing down gelled up baby hairs even a thing? Doesn’t this act implicitly ingrain the message that natural edges are unruly or unsightly?

Then, the fact that this man prefaced the hair length comparison statement with “no disrespect but…” had clearly, immediately and innately activated the need for me to defend myself, defend my hair. It made the statement inherently disrespectful and suggested a hair inferiority. “Well, I’m not offended because I chopped all of my hair off. I did the big chop.” I blurted out as I recovered and attempted to hide my chagrin under the guise of enlightening my peers with indisputable facts. I might as well have said, “So you see, your hair was only longer than mine by default. You are not better than me, your hair does not grow longer or faster. I started over. So there. My hair is freaking awesome dude BE HUMBLE!”

A similar microaggression was facilitated by a white female coworker a few months prior. In the same breath of her complimenting how full, cute, and suiting my afro puff debut at work was, she denigrated another sister, A Black female acquaintance of hers that she couldn’t, for the life of her, decode why the woman had opted to wear a ponytail that was “this” (she demonstrated for dramatic effect with her finger and thumb barely separated) long.

That Sunday evening after The Defense, I moisturized and cornrowed my curls in my bedroom whilst getting lost and mesmerized by the gentle crooning of Jill Scott playing in the background of my makeshift hair salon. I was preparing for my next protective style while giving Queen Latifah in Set It Off vibes with my straight-back, tightly and neatly plaited locks. In my meditative thug life glory, I forced myself to decompress from the week’s weariness and anticipated the new beginning of the next week. I had survived yet another conventional beauty standard microaggression and had lived to defend myself another day. I wondered, “When?”

When exactly are we going to stop scrutinizing a fish by its ability to climb a tree? When we’re made of the same star essence and universe rain from which our hair, like trees and flowers, sprout. Spiral upward to greet the sun’s rays. Voluminous. Luminous. Copious. Billowing. Created to rise, magnificently blossom, and be spatially excellent. Outsmarting and gently defeating gravity in unique testament to an especially magic divinity. An enchanting intensity that somehow shines through even in a brush cut.
Our hair is meant to curl, coil, jump, and leap! Stretch and shout for joy. Vibrate, an antenna majestically intertwined with the galaxy. Humidity forecasts strong springiness with a slight chance of shrinkage and a high chance of slayage. Encounters with heat engender silkiness. Water, softly rippling waves. Air, flourishing kinks proudly riding the breeze. Requiring nourishment like the soil. A mirror of the Earth. Black Girl Radiance is not defined by hair length: Our magic is far too big and resilient for that.
Lacrisha is a healing, growth, and wellness enthusiast who likes to spend her spare time participating in sophisticated ratchet hippie thug scholar things like lamenting adulting and reading books. She is a proud alumna of both the illustrious Howard University and North Carolina Central University.

by Kimberly Foster @KimberlyNFoster

Lupita Nyong’o defies nearly every physical expectation of what a Hollywood starlet should be. She is dark-skinned with an athletic body and short, natural hair.

She first drew attention for her enormous talent, but Ms. Nyong’o’s star has been aided by her ability to wear couture with an easy confidence. Her striking and sometimes challenging looks, created with the help of stylist Micaela Erlanger, dominated red carpets during the 2014 award show season. Suddenly she became the bell of the ball. Even the fashion neutral awaited her arrival at high profile events to see what she would have on, because admiration of her presence extends far beyond the clothes.

Lupita Nyong'o in Ralph Lauren at the Golden Globes in 2014 - Photos: Getty Images

Glamour is a construct in great need of disruption. Often defined as sleek, and white, on each of her red carpet outings, Ms. Nyongo’s unambiguously Black body and kinky hair interrupts the parade of unchallenged norms. And the Black girls who have long thumbed through pages of fashion magazines get to bear witness to a Black woman rising star, gentle and self-possessed, who commands attention on the world’s biggest stages. A woman who quietly calls into question the things we’re taught about beauty.

Every time Lupita Nyong’o appears as the best dressed woman on a red carpet or graces a magazine cover, she is shifting paradigms. And it is her hair, an oft overlooked accessory, that is of particular importance.

Ms. Nyong’o, a Kenyan woman, has hair like mine, tightly coiled and undeniably African. And she wears it proudly to formal events with expensive jewels and bespoke ensembles. She rejects all assumptions about the “appropriateness” of natural hair for special occassions. Sometimes Lupita’s coifs are graceful, Sometimes they are elegant, Sometimes they are avant-garde. But they are always appropriate because she is wearing them so well that she cannot be denied.

With a mix of playfulness and thoughtfulness, she and hairstylist Vernon Francois experiment with shape, height, symmetry, and length. And onlookers enjoy the looks because in a world where a Black woman cannot take a breath without being interrogated about her aesthetic choices, the hair never feels heavy. It is self-expression and celebration. Her styles recall heritage without lecturing, as she did at this year’s Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Benefit, commonly known as the Met Gala.

Lupita Nyong'o attends the Met Gala in 2016 - Photo: Getty Images

At the Met Gala, Ms. Nyong’o sported a ponytail that stretched toward the sun. When American Vogue editor-at-large Andre Leon Talley inquired on the red carpet, she said the style was inspired by “the structural hair-dos from around the continent.” She, of course, meant the continent of Africa and Talley, in a moment of recognition, added, “This is very Nina Simone.”

The day after the event, Vogue.com mistakenly attributed the towering coiffure’s inspiration to Audrey Hepburn. With couth and clarity she laid out that hers was a tribute to the ingenuity of Black women across the Diaspora. Francois told The Fader, “We were greatly inspired by African tribes, sculptured silhouettes and the strengths of textured hair.” Nyong’o, Talley, and Francois argue that glamour is inherent to African Diasporic culture, though it has long been unrecognized by the mainstream arbiters of taste.

Hair Inspiration. Check. @vernonfrancois @voguemagazine #metball2016

A video posted by Lupita Nyong'o (@lupitanyongo) on May 4, 2016 at 6:50am PDT

The Vogue gaffe cemented why I am still made uneasy when the white gaze meets Ms. Nyong’o’s beauty. She remains an oddity to be misread by those who have had limited interaction with Black culture and history. But it also underscores why she and her hair are so crucial. Natural Black hair on red carpets is still a rarity, and many believe it to be out of place. For example, talk show host Wendy Williams implied Viola Davis’s short auburn style made her look masculine at the Oscars in 2014.

Seeing Lupita Nyong’o matters. And we might not have her if she had not seen. At the Essence Black Women in Hollywood luncheon in 2007, she cited the importance of witnessing the celebration of Sudanese/British model Alek Wek on the formation of her self esteem. “There was no apology in you.” she told Wek when they met shortly after the speech. And there is none in Ms. Nyong’o.

Wearing highly textured hair that defies gravity with little help is an act of defiance. Lupita Nyong’o would be a much different kind of style icon if she wore relaxed hair or straight extensions regularly, equally as stunning but far less transgressive. With her dynamic natural hairstyles, she offers an alternative, one that is stunning and unmissable.



Kimberly Foster is the founder and editor-in-chief of For Harriet. Email or Follow @KimberlyNFoster

Are weaves the not-so-hidden force that’s tearing down the black community? At times, you would think so. From lectures and films to op-eds and social media roasts, it seems like everyone wants to weigh-in on why black women need to stop rocking store-bought hair. This discourse is filled with men and women using their extreme views to proclaim what styles equate self-love and putting down sisters who don’t fit that image.

It needs to stop.


Type the word “weave” into Google and you’re guaranteed to see a stream of photos, blogs, and videos with captions and commentary poking fun at sisters “spending all that money on fake hair” or shallow hypotheses on why sisters don’t want to embrace their natural beauty. The interesting thing in all this is that those who tend to belittle women for wearing hair extensions tend to ignore that: (1) historically and culturally, we (men especially) have participated in upholding the Eurocentric standards many black women strive to attain and (2) women wear extensions for various reasons. It’s not always about insecurity.

While there is a need to unpack what we've been programmed to find as beautiful, I'm strongly against shaming sisters' hair choices in the process. Condescendingly telling a “queen” she is “better than” her sew-in is not the solution. The way a person styles their hair does not inherently equate with a level of “wokeness” or self-confidence. Every person sporting locs doesn’t necessarily ascribe to pan-African thought (e.g. Whoopi Goldberg) and on the flipside, a woman wearing a weave is not automatically ashamed of her natural hair.

My hair has always been natural (not chemically processed) but I’ve had about every hairstyle you can think of - mohawk, braids, highlights. My head has seen it all. Weaves have allowed me the versatility to protect my natural hair and try out new looks without making permanent changes to my hair. There are many women with plenty of hair who do the same such as Beyoncé, Gabrielle Union, or Taraji P. Henson.

And it’s not just black women. What sets us apart is the highly political relationship we’ve had with our hair while living in a society that constantly upholds Eurocentric beauty standards. A woman should have the freedom to explore and figure out what fits her best and style her hair however she feels most comfortable​ without receiving backlash because she’s not fulfilling someone’s trivial standard of Blackness.

It is also important to recognize that hair extensions and wigs are nothing new. It’s something that been seen in cultures throughout time from ancient Egyptians to Japanese Geishas.

What’s wonderful about today’s natural hair movement is that it has broadened the idea of beauty and given a new generation of women the courage and confidence to embrace our hair textures, despite living in a society that has historically made us feel inferior and unattractive in our afros or coils.

This mentality has undoubtedly been internalized and perpetuated among black people, and often times by black men in particular - from Martin poking fun at Pam for her “bee dee bees” to Yung Berg proudly speaking on his “pool test.” To drag black women for sporting hairstyles that we’ve been told for centuries will make us more appealing, is both hypocritical and insensitive.

I still have memories of my older cousins making a fuss over my tightly coiled hair, being probed about why my mother wouldn’t relax my hair, and the humiliation I felt when my crush noticed the summer humidity wouldn’t let my press ‘n’ curl be great during recess.

Feeling confident to embrace your natural hair in a world that will call Kylie Jenner a trailblazer for sporting a few cornrows, yet label a black woman ghetto for a same look, is no doubt a revolutionary act. But putting ourselves above someone who opts for a different look is counter-productive. Our hair continues to be a political commodity for the world to gawk at and take their digs. As a community, it should be our business to do otherwise.



If we’re really about shifting beauty standards and uplifting black women, instead of ranting on weaves, respect a woman’s choice to rock the hairstyle of her choice and remind her that she’s beautiful either way. Until we fully accept and celebrate each other in the full spectrum of our appearances, we are only participating in the problem.

Photo: Shutterstock.com

Shahida Muhammad was raised in Philadelphia and is currently based abroad in Colombia. Her writing tends to lie within the spaces of Black culture, identity, and womanhood. For more, follow @ShahidaMuhammad on Twitter.

by Michelle Y. Talbert, Esq.

"I am a woman who came from the cotton fields of the South. From there I was promoted to the washtub. From there I was promoted to the cook kitchen. And from there I promoted myself into the business of manufacturing hair goods and preparations. I have built my own factory on my own ground." ~ Madam C.J. Walker

By Jaimee Swift

As seen in historical manifestations, the proverbial white feminine hierarchical complex on the ideals of Black women and Black beauty has reared its ugly head once again. And of course, the target of such criticism is none other than one of the most powerful Black women in the world: Beyoncé.

by Stacia L. Brown for The New Republic

When I cut my hair last summer, I sheared 12 inches of chemically straightened hair from the coarser curls closest to my scalp. I had only an inch of hair in its natural state; at the time, I felt free.

The Teeny Weeny Afro (TWA) seems to be the stepchild, twice removed, in the natural hair family. When scrolling down my Pintrest and Tumblr feeds, and reading the latest natural hair articles, I see box braids, buzzed cuts, faux locs, twists, curly afros, and others, but rarely TWAs. When they do make an appearance, they are usually with loose curls—not the 4b/4c texture I’m working with.

Last week, when I took out my faux locs and saw my awkward, 2-inch TWA, I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the sight.

It was too long to leave the house without running a comb through it, but too short to pull back in a ponytail. I knew my hair wouldn’t be long, because I was growing it out from a five-year buzzed cut—but I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.
Like a many naturalistas, I wanted the coveted Tracy Ellis-Ross hair, but got the Viola Davis, post-wig fro. Even in our self-loving natural hair community, not all textures and lengths receive equal praise.

I looked at my hair, which was neither long, nor loosely curled, and thought about how the Blue Ivy hair police might say I had that slave girl, chicken head, “is it a boy or a girl?” type look.

Except, no other person saying those things at the moment— just me.

Though I claim to be a black feminist culture critic and life-long naturalista who will hashtag #StayWoke until the day I die, even I have to admit I do not always love my naps.

When I wore a buzzed haircut, I would break out the clippers at the first site of a wayward curl. I liked the shaved look, not the nappy one.
It wasn’t the texture that bothered me. I loved the versatility of my hair. But it had to be manipulated and styled. I’ve worn twists, faux locs, and curly afros—but they had to be flexy-rod curly. I wasn’t okay with my not-styled, comb-and-go TWA.

So after taking down my faux locs, I immediately went wig shopping. But I think my natural hair genies were not pleased with the way I viewed my hair, so I didn’t find any wigs I liked.

I then thought about compensating to balance the awkwardness with what I deemed beautiful: I could wear makeup (even though it wasn’t a regular practice of mine), I could wear prettier clothing, I could wear my glasses that gave me a softer appearance.

Without much confidence in those ideas, I opened up my laptop and found this meme on my Facebook timeline:

That internet ignorance reminded me to cut the crap and wake up from the anti-black beauty standards I’d been trying to meet.
I responded to the post, “🚫. And still bombAF.”

I’d been natural my whole life and have been a buzzed cut diva for the last five years. I should know better than anyone that short nappy hair is beautiful.

My natural hair journey has taken me from a buzzed cut to faux locs, and now, to a TWA. And I’m learning to love it at every shape, length, and stage.

Photo Credit: Shutterstock

Shae Collins is a freelance writer and blogger at Awomynsworth.com, a blog that aims a black feminist lens at all things involving race, gender, and pop culture. Follow her on Twitter @awomynsworth.

by Anna Gibson


A recent Buzzfeed video, “Powerful Hair Makeovers that Transforms People's Lives,” showed seven clients, from a variety of racial backgrounds, participating in a hair transformation that would dramatically change the way they looked. They all wanted the transformation for different reasons. Some felt their hair was a burden. Others wanted a change from hairstyles they’d rocked for years. All of them were dissatisfied and simply wanted something new, feeling it would boost their confidence and change the way they showed up in the world.

by Altheria Gaston

by Sierra Boone

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been getting braids and twists and everything in between done to my hair. In my toddler years my head was a home for those infamous ponytails with balls that slapped me in the head. My pre-teen years were consumed with half-up half-down braided styles and my parents finally allowed me to wear long, jet black box braids and Senegalese twists in high school. Simply put, protective styles have defined my childhood and maturing hair experiences.

I wear my hair in its natural state. It is full, glorious, and the embodiment of my character. My hair is full of kinks that grow upward and out toward the sky in a way mainstream beauty standards cannot appreciate. I love my hair, but I also know that my luscious locks are not valued by most.

by Celeste Graham


Over the past three years I’ve watched as the natural hair movement and Afrocentricity have made a major comeback into fashion and pop culture at large. It’s everywhere. From our clothes to the music we listen to and most noticeably, in our hair. Braids, afros, twist-outs, wash-and-go’s, protective styles. The list of hairstyles is endless. Each natural hair care line claims to have all of the right ingredients to moisturize, nourish, and help our natural hair reach its fullest potential. Within all of this natural hair frenzy, of course, are the politics of hair. What should natural hair look like? What is considered to be “attractive” natural hair and what’s considered to be unattractive?

But more importantly: Why does it even matter?

Over the last decade, black women’s hair has become a topic of discussion, not only amongst salon goers, but also throughout society. Chris Rock’s documentary “Good Hair” gave the world insight into the secret society of relaxers, wigs and weave. Since then, women of color have embraced their right to decide how they wear their hair and the processes they undergo to achieve that look.

I want to be clear and explicit: I love my (natural) hair. I really do! Like most Black women, my relationship with my hair is a reflection of my relationship with my culture, my womanhood, and my journey. Each hairstyle and phase I’ve gone through with my hair is a marker for where I was in my life, what my values were, and how I felt about myself.

by Vivian Hee for the New York Times

Not much seems unusual about Judian and Kadeian Brown’s storefront in a tidy plaza off Church Avenue in Flatbush, Brooklyn, a neighborhood where every block seems to have its own African hair-braiding salon.

Posters of African-American women with long, sleek hair fill the window. Round jars of shea butter belly up to slender boxes of hair dye on the shelves. Wigs perch on mannequin heads.

by Queen Muse

I knew I had wowed them. I showed up for the job interview five minutes early wearing a classic black and white dress suit, lengthened to the knee, and a pair of black patty melts. My hair, though braided, was in what appeared to be a curly weave style. You could barely tell they were braids. As the interview progressed, I watched as my potential new bosses smiled, shook my hand and gave nods of approval, clearly delighted that my appearance was as impressive as my credentials on paper.

I can't go natural. My hair is too rough man. It's like a brillo pad.

Me? Go natural? No ma'am. Looks beautiful on you though!

Until I went natural, I never really had the courage to dig deeper into the history of slavery than what was being taught in schools. Growing up in Suriname in a loving family of five, I had everything a kid could wish for. I can humbly say that we grew up privileged with more than enough opportunities to play sports, travel, learn to play an instrument and obtain a good education. Aware of my blessings, I could hardly consider myself a victim of slavery.