existence as resistance: navigating natural hair and identity in a colonial landscape.

I used to pray to have straight hair. When my mother took my sisters and I to the grocery store, I would rush to the hair section to visit the young Black girls living on the green and pink hair relaxer boxes. Their smiling faces under the fluorescent lights, all airbrushed to obscurity, reminded me of what I would never have. They seemed happier than me, as though the second the relaxer melted away their hair texture, all of their problems and insecurities melted away with it. I wanted that same happiness.

My desire for straight hair was a common sentiment felt by little Black girls. Shows like "That's So Raven," "True Jackson VP," and "Girlfriends" etched a prescribed image of Black womanhood into our minds—light skin with loose curls or straight hair. These portrayals communicated not only who we should aspire to be, but also who we should not be and what we should not have. However, in the Caribbean, the media is not the sole arbiter of what "proper" Blackness should look like. Within many of its institutions, such as schools and the workplace, natural hair is often labeled as unkempt and ungroomed.

Though she grew up in the 60s and 70s, a time known for its afro hair movement, Ursula Pratt can remember how having natural hair was a rarity at her primary and high school, highlighting the pervasive influence of Eurocentric beauty standards within Caribbean communities. In the predominantly Black country, Sundays were spent sitting in the green tiled kitchen waiting for the hot comb to heat up over the stove. This routine brought what she called a “sense of pride” from having newly straightened hair throughout the week.

For her, transitioning to natural hair was less about self-discovery, and more about self-preservation, recalling the moment she decided to go natural.

“It was when I was in my 30s and I went for a perm. And it was so bad I felt like my scalp was on fire, literally on fire and that night I came home and I could not put my head down on my pillow. And I cried. I remember the tears running down my eyes and I thought, “never again.” I thought, “there has to be something wrong with this, this is crazy.” I never did it again. As my scalp healed, my entire scalp like, shed in pieces. It was awful. I remember that. My whole face hurt for days. And that's what made me stop.”

Following the incident, she chose to loc her hair. This decision marked a transformative moment in her life and forced her to reflect on the significance of her identity. Despite growing up in an era where locs were often stigmatized, a viewpoint she initially shared, Ursula eventually embraced locs simply because she liked the style. Her shift in perspective reflected a personal choice, stating, “I think it became more about what I liked versus what society says that I should do.”

Though she names influential figures, such as Toni Morrison and Ava DuVernay, as women who played a crucial role in destigmatizing locs within the Black community, she also acknowledges the ongoing sensitivity surrounding hair, citing a friend who succumbed to societal pressures and cut her locs because she felt they appeared "unkempt" when grown out. The persistence of this internalized colonial mindset underscores the complex relationship many Black women have with their natural hair.

While there is a perception that women who choose to wear their natural hair are inherently proud, the reality is more nuanced. The ongoing influence of colonization complicates this narrative, emphasizing that natural hair alone does not equate to pride. In a society still in a colonial era, the tension between Bahamian pride and Black pride, and the enduring influence of Eurocentric beauty standards reveals the layers of identity negotiation.

I am no better. The older I get, the louder I am about my identity. I write pieces on colonialism and Black hair, and am the first to criticize those who insist on following eurocentric beauty standards. Yet, when it is time to do my hair, the first thing that I do is reach for the blow dryer, desperate to humble my curls that always insist on defying gravity. No, natural hair alone does not equate pride.

In adulthood, Ursula refused to let any form of perm and relaxer touch her children’s hair. I think of the young Black girls on the green and pink boxes, who, because of my mother’s decisions, represent different forms of trauma for her and I. In their faces, I saw happiness where she saw pain.

Decolonization is violent; It is the deconstruction of an oppressive and invasive system. Likewise, wearing one's natural hair is inherently a symbol of anticolonialism, challenging deeply ingrained notions of beauty and identity imposed by Eurocentric beauty standards. It confronts not only societal norms but also infiltrates institutions like schools and workplaces. School regulations, mirroring the expectations in the workforce, become microcosms of a colonial society, persisting in what should be a postcolonial state. From a young age, Black girls find themselves navigating a dual struggle, adhering to codes that implicitly favor Eurocentric beauty and perpetuate a bias against natural hair. Consequently, simply by having natural hair, Black women deconstruct the system that attempts to stifle their authentic selves. In doing so, they not only redefine personal narratives but also contribute to a broader movement aimed at dismantling the systemic vestiges of colonialism.

Dwy Rolle, a 22-year-old, endured a similar journey with her hair during her formative years. From 3rd to 10th grade, Dwy had permed hair, a decision influenced by a white teacher's objections to her natural hair, who claimed that other students were unable to see in front of her hair. After constantly pressuring Dwy’s mother to perm her hair, she finally gave in to protect her child from the whispers and nagging from administrators.

Like most primary and high schools in The Bahamas, Dwy’s alma mater actively encouraged permed hair, enforcing a list of discriminatory rules regarding natural hair, including prohibitions on braids, short cuts, undercuts, shape-ups, wigs, weaves, hair dye, bleach, or locs. Natural bleaching from chlorine or saltwater prompted administration intervention, who forced students to dye their hair black, which would then turn green due to frequent exposure to chlorine. Dwy recalls a particular student who was targeted by administration due to her hair.

“We had one girl who basically came out of the womb with locs. She had locs all her life. They tell her to cut it all off or unlock it, and she never did. She had her hair in head wraps and they told her to take her head wraps off which would expose the locs and they would say, “Okay now take these locs out.” Her entire school life at St. Anne’s was a limbo with the administration. Mind you, her whole family had locs; It was a part of her identity and they would still tell her she can’t have locs.”

The struggle against discriminatory attitudes towards natural hair wasn't confined to the school environment alone, but extended into the Bahamian workplace for graduates like Dwy. The school's regulations mirrored the ingrained biases present in broader Bahamian society. The restrictive norms governing hairstyles, particularly those rooted in Eurocentric ideals, persisted beyond the classroom, creating an additional layer of challenges for Black women striving to navigate their professional lives authentically. The parallels between school regulations and workplace barriers underscore the systemic nature of these challenges and emphasize the urgent need for broader societal change to dismantle such practices. After graduating from St. Anne's, Rolle argues that many of the discriminatory barriers girls faced in school were replicated in the workplace.

“The thing with the school system in general is that although it’s unfair, they condition you to be prepared for the workplace in The Bahamas. So when they say your hair must be cut low or you can’t wear your hair like this or you can’t wear locs, braids, or this that and the next, that’s because in the real world, a lot of your regular, working class spaces, that’s how they expect you to look and you can’t argue with them because they just ‘ga hire someone else. And with places that the average Bahamian doesn’t work, like higher paying places, some of them don’t really have an issue, or places run by the millennial group, they don’t care that much I’ve noticed. But the average Bahamian, so I mean for food store cashiers or most places, in government jobs especially, they [schools] know the standards of having a government job where you have to wear your hair a certain way and can’t have colors.”

For Black women, to exist is to resist. Our very being challenges the norms established by colonization, and we do not need to be explicitly vocal to pose a threat to these structures. Elements of our identity, such as our natural hair, inherently defy colonial regulations that echo throughout Bahamian society. The Eurocentric ideals embedded in discriminatory practices against natural hair are a glaring example of the enduring impact of colonialism. As long as these norms persist, we cannot truly claim to live in a "post-colonial" state. The struggle against these regulations is ongoing, demanding a comprehensive shift in societal attitudes and norms to pave the way for a more equitable and liberated future for Black women. It's crucial to acknowledge that the burden of being seen as spokespeople for change and strength is often thrust upon us without consideration. The assumption that Black women inherently embody strength and resistance can overshadow the diverse and nuanced experiences within our community. I do not aspire to be a strong Black woman merely for existing. Instead, at some point, I wish for all Black women to experience a world where the elements of their identity are not burdened with the expectation of having to be more than just themselves.