Mothering African Hair

Of all the things a new mother stresses about, her kids’ hair is usually not one of them. But for me, it was.

I felt an invisible weight upon me that if I was to be a good mom to my girls, I must get their hair right. This was not a completely imagined pressure. I learned early on that in both African and African-American cultures, well-maintained hair is important. I already knew my competence as a white mother to two black daughters would be questioned in many ways. So I was determined to prove myself capable of at least caring for their hair.

I read Black hair blogs. I watched YouTube videos. I even bought and read a book on the subject. I tried a ridiculous number of hair products. Yet still, I was anxious. It was harder than I thought, and despite my best efforts, I could not turn myself into a Black hair artist. 

I often asked my African friends for advice, and one day, a friend said, “Amy, our hair can be a challenge for us too. Don’t worry so much about it.” That was a game changer. 

I looked around and realized that most little girls in Tanzania fell into two categories: They went to public school, in which case their hair was required to be shaved short. Or they went to private school, and they got their hair done in a salon. 

Oh. If Tanzanian mothers were regularly taking their girls to the salon, why couldn’t I do this too? 

So, to the salon we went, usually every other month. I tried lots of them, and in our last few years in Tanzania, we had a lady come to our house to do hair. Usually the girls and I picked styles that included yarn or synthetic hair extensions. 

“Why don’t you just let it be loose?” my non-African friends would ask. But wearing it “loose” was not a great option for my girls. Their natural hair texture (especially Grace’s) would require an hour of combing every day in order to look presentable, and by the end of the day, would be all matted down again. When Grace was a middle schooler, we tried getting it chemically texturized to make it more manageable. She wore it in an Afro–and we all loved it–until I realized that inches of her hair were breaking off.

This was another thing I have learned about Black hair–it can be extremely fragile. It must be moisturized regularly–which means it shouldn’t be washed with shampoo every day or even every week (often we wash with just conditioner). I am constantly trying to get the oil out of my hair, but with my girls, we deliberately add oil back in. This is also why Black women sleep with a satin head cap on, or, as in the case of my girls, sleep on a satin pillowcase. Cotton will cause their hair to break. 

Spending so many years in Africa grew my appreciation for African hair art–there really isn’t a better way to describe it. The stunning and creative styles of women’s hair blew me away. “How do you say that style in Swahili?” I would ask friends. “I want to ask my stylist to try that on my girls.”

Being so dependent on salons made me panic about upcoming visits to America. In Tanzania, salons are affordable, but in the States, I knew the prices would be 6-10 times more. Knowing that did force me to learn to do their hair, and I got competent with a few simple styles. But it took me hours to do a style that would only last a few days, and even then I wasn’t great at it. 

So when we knew we would be returning to the States indefinitely, the girls and I talked long and hard about our plan for their hair. After a lot of convincing, Grace agreed to get her hair locked–what many Americans know as dreadlocs–but since there is nothing dreadful about them, should just be called locs. 

Locs are formed when hair is rolled or crocheted into long ropes, and Black hair is especially conducive to them. When fully formed, the result is a style that looks a lot like braid extensions, but with entirely natural hair that is relatively easy to care for. Grace had her locs installed in a salon in Tanzania, and after only six weeks of caring for Lily’s hair in the States, she and I decided that her hair should be locked too. Some people spent their time in quarantine baking sourdough bread; I spent 10 hours locking Lily’s hair. 

And we’re all happy. The girls love that their hair will just continue to get longer, and that they can take care of it themselves. And I’m happy that they still have to depend on me to maintain it. Their locs need to be regularly tightened (essentially by crocheting), and they need their mom to do it. That means I’ve pretty much guaranteed that they are going to need to spend a few hours with me every other month for the rest of their lives, or until they decide to cut their hair. Pretty clever of me, if I do say so myself.

And that, perhaps, is my favorite part of Black hair. In African culture, women’s hair is communal. The intricate styles can’t be achieved by oneself, so women must depend on other women for their hair. Many days I greeted neighbors as they sat on a mat under the coconut palms in the heat of the day, doing each other’s hair. It’s a memory I hold close.

On Sunday afternoon, I spent several hours doing Grace’s hair, and she and I watched and sang robustly along to Fiddler on the Roof. Somehow, this small, monotonous task bonds mother to daughter, and both to the land of her birth.