The Internalized Bias and Disguised Misogyny Against African Hair

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June/July 2025
Hair

Illustration by Shalom Ojo / THE REPUBLIC.

THE MINISTRY OF CULTURAL AFFAIRS

The Internalized Bias and Disguised Misogyny Against African Hair

For many Black women, the pressure to straighten their hair is not just an aesthetic choice, nor only a necessity for survival in professional spaces, but a burden imposed by colonial and patriarchal standards of beauty.
Hair

Illustration by Shalom Ojo / THE REPUBLIC.

THE MINISTRY OF CULTURAL AFFAIRS

The Internalized Bias and Disguised Misogyny Against African Hair

For many Black women, the pressure to straighten their hair is not just an aesthetic choice, nor only a necessity for survival in professional spaces, but a burden imposed by colonial and patriarchal standards of beauty.

Though vague, I catch glimpses of a fleeting memory—the first time someone referred to my hair as ‘good hair.’ It was a random man from the salon I often visited when I was young. He had no hair of his own but somehow deemed himself an expert at determining the classification of others. He would call mine, chemically relaxed and straight at the time, ’good’ in contrast to the girl whose hair he described as ‘strong and untidy.’ She frowned when he said this. I thought his comment was a compliment at the time. I did not see how wrong it was of him to demean a young girl, to analyze her natural texture, to carry bias for a specific type of hair, the one that originally grows from our head.

Growing up, I unconsciously nurtured this praise and began internalizing a similar bias toward straighter hair. During my secondary school days, a group of boys from Class 3 would call out to a few girls with remarks like ‘dirty, ugly hair.’ They screamed at them, ‘Just because you’re forming church girls doesn’t mean you should not wear earrings and come to school with dirty, ugly hair.’ Even then, I knew that to say Afro-textured hair was dirty and ugly was a lie because J.E., one of the girls they had called out, had hair I secretly envied. Her hair was thick, black and luscious, with coily and curly tips, and her baby hairs had soft, perfect curls too.

I had once spent a great deal of time wondering if she used a particular cream to achieve those curls and if my hair could not produce similar results because of years of relaxers. But I’m thankful that I eventually unlearned the lies that had brewed a quiet hatred for my identity as an African woman.

#BLACKGIRLMAGIC

My unlearning process began in 2017. This was the year social media introduced me to the natural hair movement, and it came with a revelation. I began seeing and hearing about trends led by Black women who wore their natural hair unapologetically, and it immediately captivated me. At the time, I came across a high puff on the Instagram page of a popular natural hair creator, Temi Adesina, and it was my turning point. Temi had hair that stretched below her lower back, chasing Rapunzel-like length when silk-pressed, and transforming into a voluminous afro when wet. It was magic!

I would sit in awe at the high puff, marvelling at how she had gathered her hair into a crown-like structure with a flawless afro texture, something one would expect to purchase as a wig or see in an art gallery. When I scrolled further through her page, I saw more pictures that only deepened my fascination. A particular image where she had curls in strands that popped out reminded me of J.E.’s hair and how I had been clueless about the different textures and curl patterns our hair could possess before it was chemically straightened. For this, I plunged headfirst into research and exploration of the rich history of Afro-textured hair.

For most parts of 2017, my Google search history read ‘African women and their original hair’ because my curiosity about our hair’s heritage was insatiable. My findings revealed how African women in pre-colonial societies used their hair as a symbol of their identity, religion, age, strength, power and status. During the transatlantic slave trade, they would hide rice, beads, shells, feathers and seeds within their braids when farming and use these natural materials to adorn their hair, forming unique and intricate styles as a means of preserving their heritage. I learned of the cultural significance of Black hair, the numerous African hairstyles that became tools for resistance and identity. Braids and patterns in hair carried coded messages that signified tribal belonging or maps that carried escape routes. All these revelations about our hair’s roots unveiled an enduring resilience for African women and inspired me to transition to wearing my natural hair. My transition, however, was not without challenges. Discrimination was (and still is) a reality for Black hair in its natural state, even in African countries like Nigeria.

Just like J.E. and the girls from my secondary school, wearing my natural hair had me greeted with prejudice and stereotypes. This deep-rooted discrimination has accrued over decades and contributes to the stories of young Black girls in various countries being mandated to straighten their hair to conform to Western beauty standards.

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THE HISTORY OF BLACK HAIR MOVEMENTS

The way I see it, wearing our hair in its natural state means reclaiming a part of our identity that colonialism tried to erase. Though the contexts are not the same, I am drawing from both Nigerian and Afro-diasporic experiences to show how the discrimination and pressures on Black women’s hair show up in different but connected ways, especially as the racial formations discriminating against Black hair manifest in varying degrees across continental and diasporic contexts. Across these Black geographies, the Afro, dreadlocks, and other natural hairstyles were not always aesthetic choices; Black hair has always had a profound political importance.

Our hair has become an act of resistance deeply embedded in the history of Black liberation since the Civil Rights movement in the 1960s, the Rastafarian movement, and the Afro Pride movement. The Rastafarian movement in Jamaica, for instance, rejected colonial influence by embracing the growth and wearing of dreadlocks as a cultural and spiritual sign of resistance. Similar to this, Afros were worn by Black Panthers and activists like Angela Davis during the Black Power movement of the 1960s as audacious statements of pride, acceptance of oneself, and defiance against Black erasure.

A core example of how the Rastafarian movement also struck a chord was with young Black people in Central America. Professor of Gender and Women’s Studies, Courtney Desiree Morris, provides insight in her book, To Defend This Sunrise. She showed how growing dreadlocks was a radical act of self-assertion in Nicaragua, and tells the tale of the first young Creole woman, Nora Newball, to adopt the natural style in Nicaragua. Even though Newball’s community discouraged her, including older ladies and even teachers who gave her expensive and limited chemical relaxers, she decided to ‘go dread’ and this became a political and personal statement. Morris explained how Newball and others started to see their hair as a sign of freedom after being influenced by reggae superstars Peter Tosh and Bob Marley. This is just one of the many examples of how cultural identity and resistance are intertwined.

When I view Black hairstyles from the perspective of economic survival, the political aspect becomes more apparent. Corporate environments have upheld grooming norms that value Eurocentric looks for a very long time. They have labelled natural hair as ‘unprofessional’ or ‘unpolished’. Because of this bias, Black women have historically been compelled to wear wigs and weaves or chemically straighten their hair to meet job standards and appear ‘neat’ and ‘professional’. The experiences of innumerable women who continue to encounter micro-aggressions or blatant bias in professional contexts, despite the advancements in natural hair advocacy, continue to show the consequences of this discrimination. Laws like the  CROWN Act in the United States, which forbids discrimination based on colour and hair, particularly highlight how profoundly ingrained these prejudices are.

Black hair is still being policed in workplaces even in Nigeria, and I have personally had multiple experiences of this, especially how it relates to how economic forces may stifle cultural expression, turning compliance into a survival strategy rather than a personal preference. I have also noticed the raging desire for smooth edges and baby hairs in recent times, and its representation in the media today is a reflection of this same logic of beauty that once disapproved of our kinks and coils in the past. Even what is praised as ‘natural’ these days subtly reinforces the demand for uniformity and control.

It would not take spectacles to see that Black hair is still commercialized by the media and cosmetic companies, all the while managing to retain aspects of Eurocentric aesthetics. Instead of honouring the variety of Black hair textures, the popularity of natural hair products has caused discussions to turn toward ‘upkeep’ and ‘taming’. This has led to a movement that oftentimes seems like a repackaged, more acceptable form of the very beauty standards it seeks to challenge.

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COLONIAL SELECTIVE DESIRABILITY AND THE RAW DONOR COMPLEX

Through the course of my research, I also realized that although it is sometimes spoken about, not enough attention has been given to African hair as a part of cultural identity and its role in shaping societal perceptions of the body. This gap forms a linking thread that creates space for the politics of hair in Africa to be continuously questioned. I read feminist philosopher Sharon Omotoso’s article, ‘Gender and Hair Politics’, where she offers a philosophical breakdown of how African hair, particularly women’s hair, has been weaponized as a tool of control. I learned that African hair, unlike the similarly colonized Indian hair, was never allowed the luxury of neutrality. It was politicized, ridiculed, and placed under constant surveillance. That colonial standards rejected the very essence of African textures and began marking them as undesirable.

In contrast, Indian women’s hair has had a distinct place in the colonial and postcolonial spheres. Indian hair quickly became a commodity, whereas African hair lost value. A billion-dollar worldwide industry has grown out of the temple hair trade, which involves women selling their hair as a sacrifice and a part of religious offerings. More often than not, Indian hair is referred to as ‘luxurious’ and ‘premium’, and this supports the Western beauty industry, in contrast to the stigma associated with African hair. This reveals the way colonial hierarchies produce the selective desirability of hair.

Hair politics is, therefore, nuanced and about more than just appearances. For African women to get employment, education and social acceptance, it became necessary for them to relax or conceal their natural hair. Black women are compelled to constantly negotiate their identities due to the coloniality of being, as Omotoso emphasized in her work. Though Indian women contribute to the commercialization of hair, they frequently maintain a feeling of traditional pride in their sacrifices and are usually unaffected by the same degree of dehumanization.

However, within this commodification, there are layers of exploitation. Many Indian hair buyers are Africans, and this adds to a system that further distances us from our natural textures. The evident irony is that the demand for Indian hair is fuelled by the rejection of African hair.

EUROCENTRIC PATRIARCHY AND THE ASSUMED OWNERSHIP OF WOMEN’S APPEARANCE

To add to a list of the weapons fashioned against Black women’s hair, we must look at the role of men. They often stand at the forefront of perpetuating these biases, and we have them leaning into Eurocentric patriarchy to police our hair in ways they assume they have the right to.

It is painful to acknowledge that for many Black women, the pressure to straighten our hair is not just an aesthetic choice, nor only a necessity for survival in professional spaces, but also a burden imposed on us by Eurocentric-inclined male perceptions of beauty standards. I spoke to two women about this to see their perspectives. One of them, Doyin, said that she was taken aback when a man at her NYSC registration remarked that women ‘deceive men’ with wigs and makeup, implying that her natural hair made her less attractive. Jumoke, on the other hand, was told outright by her male friend that no one approached her at a concert because of how she had styled her hair. It is no surprise, then, that so many women still feel pressured to conform in personal relationships.

A friend once recounted how her boyfriend insisted that she wear a wig before visiting his friends because her natural hair made her look ‘unkempt.’ Another woman, Jewel, shared how her ex opposed her decision to get locs and even pressured her to wear wigs in public to avoid ‘looking rough.’

The phrase ‘Don’t bring your natural hair to my event’ became popular after Big Brother Naija’s Koko by Khloe declared it in an episode of the controversial Bahd & Boujee podcast. She had even gone further to express that our natural hair was good for picking kids from school, church events, or minor errands, but not for glamorous occasions. Her comment sparked a debate across social media. The Nigerian natural hair community did not let it slide, and soon a wave of creators jumped on a trend showcasing the beauty of their natural hair, using Khloe’s voice clip as background audio to showcase their afros, twists, and locs.

These experiences are not isolated. They all reflect a deeply entrenched problem: how strongly Eurocentric notions of ‘glamour’ are still rooted, even when Black hair is in conversation, and the policing of Black women’s hair, often at the hands of men and patriarchy-enabling women who have internalized Eurocentric standards of beauty. Sometime last year, I had a shocking experience that led to the necessity of writing this essay. It was a date with someone I thought was open-minded. I had worn my afro out with pride and believed we both were having a good time, but I was questioned about my hair at the end of the date. He specifically asked with a chuckle, ‘So do you normally wear your hair out like this everywhere?’ When I responded with ‘Of course, do you have a problem with it?’ He said ‘no’ but went ahead to explain how he prefers girls with straighter hair as it makes them appear more polished. Next, he hinted toward how that would guarantee a second date and doubled down when I attacked him for suggesting chemical relaxers, saying that wigs were ‘an option for us girls too.’

My immediate thoughts after that experience were: Why on earth did he think he had the right to suggest that to a woman he had just met that very day? Asking me to relax my hair if I would like a second date reeks of alarming effrontery.

When I was younger and did not quite understand the implications of the random man from the salon classifying natural hair as ‘strong and untidy’, I could have let it slide. But with awareness, the depths of these biases have become clearer—the policing of our hair is an extension of patriarchal control.

This pressure to ‘fit’ by changing the very thing that makes us who we are is deeply rooted in colonial mentality and patriarchal hegemonic beauty standards that have pervaded societies for centuries. African men have speedily embraced the range of beauty standards produced by white heterosexual men in the hegemonic masculinity category, and they do so in an attempt to conform to this ‘masculine lifestyle.’ Even before colonialism’s apical privilege, men were revered as the ultimate authority in some traditional settings, like in Igbo culture. The man was Nna Anyi, the head and decision-maker, with his wife or wives answering to his every demand. This gave them the power to define what was considered proper or beautiful in women, shaping how femininity was seen. As a result, these men enforced their perceptions of femininity and beauty on women, and this has evolved into the systematic policing of our hair and bodies. Today, so many women secretly struggle and are burdened with the fear that their husbands, boyfriends or partners have to approve of their hair. In my experience, several Nigerian men have directly expressed a clear preference for straight hair and disapproval when they see my natural hair.

In a recent video by Daniel Precious, a natural hair content creator, she shared how lots of people ask her, ‘What if your husband wants you to relax it?’ in response to her saying she would never relax her hair because she loves it. When I think of all the underlying misogyny behind the question to begin with, it feels inherently wrong. This is why I believe we need to share stories to uplift women who secretly struggle with the pressure to love their hair and, in turn, themselves. As Black women, the damaging effects of straightening our hair are more than enough reasons to decide what we would like to do to our hair and how we would prefer to wear it. More men need to understand that to tell a Black woman that her natural hair is unkempt, untidy or inappropriate is to tell her that who she is, her very identity, needs to be hidden, erased or made palatable.

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ABOLISHING TOXIC BEAUTY STANDARDS ON BLACK HAIR

Black women researchers, such as Dr. Yvette Cozier and Tamara James-Todd, have recently exposed the risks associated with hair relaxers and have found that many of these chemical treatments marketed to Black women to alter the texture of our hair contain carcinogens that are associated with increased rates of uterine and breast cancer.

As more research emerges, hair relaxers and hair extensions are being linked to major health threats, and it is becoming worrisome to see how Black women have been disproportionately exposed to harmful chemicals in their pursuit of acceptance. Therefore, as Black women, we must not simply succumb to ‘aesthetics’ or ‘appearance.’ We must bear in mind that most of these hair-altering products were not made with us or our hair texture in mind, and result in serious health consequences. The physical consequences of these beauty standards reinforce an existing malevolent oppression of Black women globally. There should be no relationship, career or social expectation that comes at the expense of our health. It is telling enough that this research on these harms is just now becoming popular, largely due to the resistance of these Black women researchers, aided by the viral affordances of social media.

The beauty industry has not taken much responsibility for the decades-long hazardous beauty standards that Black women have had to endure. Government regulatory bodies have also fallen behind, like the U.S FDA, which does not require pre-market approval for most cosmetic products, allowing dangerous chemicals to continue to be present in hair products marketed to Black customers. This careless attitude toward the health of Black women shows even more why we need to promote safer, healthier choices and challenge the unfair rules that made these harmful products the norm.

Beyond the physical consequences, researchers have also studied the psychological effects of this discrimination. In 2016, the Perception Institute conducted a study that revealed how damaging it can be: Black women reported high levels of anxiety and social stigma, which was tied to the natural textures of their hair. This sends a message that our hair is not only seen as ‘unprofessional’ but is a threat to the status quo.

Nonetheless, I believe change is ongoing and noticeable, albeit to a tiny degree, as African women who embrace their natural hair are increasingly spreading awareness about our health in relation to our hair, refusing Eurocentric norms and promoting acts of reclamation, as overt rejections of the systems that consider Blackness to be unworthy. This essay, then, is not just about hair. It is about highlighting and refusing the lingering effects of patriarchal ideals and colonial systems that permeate our bodies and everyday lives, rating our worthiness according to our proximity to whiteness, Eurocentric looks, and a selective acceptability of natural features⎈

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