The politics of African hair, its prejudice, and the myth of professionalism

A reflection on African hair reveals how colonial bias, respectability politics, and modern systems still define natural hair as “unprofessional.”

I remember my days as a kid, not that there was anything necessarily special about them, but because they often ended with repeated habits. These sequences involved my mum arranging my books, setting my uniform, and doing my hair. It was normal for me to have a new bedazzled look every day, and teachers took notice.

Their observations did not result in positive statements. Often, I was told stories about “when I get to secondary school, this frivolous thing would stop”. At 10, I found myself in the halls of a secondary institution. I braced for the fateful moment when my hair would no longer be cared for, to come. It never did; instead, I began assisting my classmates with tending to their hair outside of braiding it.

On Friday night, I’d oil my friends’ hair, knowing the hairdressers came on Saturday. It wasn’t until I came into the General Certificate of Education (GCE) examination hall that I heard a familiar phrase about my hair. 

In a red hair band and with self-cut bangs, I passed my examination paper, and the invigilator scoffed, “When you’re in university, you will no longer have time for all this.”

Three Nigerian presidents later, and this imaginary time never came. Nigerian users on X (formerly Twitter) have a joke that I have an article on everything. It honours me that I am seen as a source of education, but it also highlights my busy schedule.

Despite having little personal time these months, I always make time for my hair. Not that I am a devout lover of hair care. Honestly, I fall more on the experimental spectrum, and my hair has paid many prices. The sole reason I do is that it was never mentally registered as a chore.

“Now and then, the internet poses a question: ‘Do black women dependent on wigs and weaves hate their natural hair texture?’”

Reframing how we talk about black  hair

My textured 4c hair is often synonymous with several adjectives like difficult, stressful, and time-consuming. These biases go beyond the primary school teachers and examination officials. They are in the workplace, in newsrooms, in the clubs, and sometimes in our close circles.

Read also: Why can’t I wear braids to the club? Revisiting the timeless debate and setting the record straight

The prejudiced terms used in these spaces include “unprofessional, “unkempt”, and most recently, “undone” — as an unnamed E! News reporter on the 2026 Oscars’ red carpet used to describe Chase Infiniti’s braids.

This little statement at a renowned stage is a microcosm of the biases black women have faced for their natural hair. This is neither a new nor an ever-forgotten problem. Just a decade ago, in 2015, on the same red carpet, Zendaya faced criticism from Giuliana Rancic, who suggested she looked like she smelled of “weed” or “patchouli oil” simply because she wore faux locs.

These constant statements remind us that as a black woman, there is never a question on if our hair is political or not. This is why how we relate to it reflects a deeper emotional tie and evokes discourses on racial pride.

Read also: Fashion is art, but every hemline, fabric, and silhouette has always had something political to say

Colonialism and the construction of beautiful hair

Hair is an offshoot of beauty. It is a trend, language, lineage, spirituality, status, and self-expression attached to the body. It is one of the first things you notice when you meet someone.

In many cultures, personal honour and identity are closely tied to hair. For instance, during the Edo period in Japan, disgraced samurai would have their topknot shaved off in a ritual called chonmage. 

Similarly, among the Igbo people, women have resisted the practice known as Isinmo, where their hair is shaved by their spouse upon betrothal. This act was traditionally intended to bind the wife to her husband and was part of marriage and status-enhancing rituals.

Pre-colonial African societies used hairstyles to signal tribe, age, marital status, and even political affiliation. The idea that African hair is inherently unprofessional can be traced back to colonial encounters. European colonisers, encountering tightly coiled hair textures different from their own, deemed them inferior and “uncivilised.”

Colonial systems relied on hierarchies that positioned European features as the standard of beauty and order. Straight hair became interchangeable with discipline, hygiene, and modernity, while Afro-textured hair was cast as wild, excessive, and in need of control.

“The idea that African hair is inherently unprofessional can be traced back to colonial encounters.” 

Over time, these ideas were institutionalised. Then, Mission schools, colonial administrations, and later corporate structures enforced grooming codes that aligned with European aesthetics. To be presentable often meant to approximate whiteness. Hair was one of the most visible, and therefore heavily policed, markers of this assimilation.

Today, that same hair is the result of a long political history in which African hair has been deliberately reframed through a colonial lens. It continues to shape global and African perceptions of beauty, discipline, and respectability. 

Even at the pinnacle of what is seen as “African beauty” in fashion, our supermodels and top models are often seen sporting low cuts on the runway and in campaigns.

In a conversation with Essence, models Nick Joesten and Angëër Amol discuss the mistreatment of black hair and dark-tone models having to cut their hair to appear “bookable”. With Amol saying, “When I first came into the industry, I had locs. When I signed to my agency, they told me I needed to cut my hair. I wasn’t comfortable with it — it took me five years to grow out my locs.”

The politics of African hair represents the power of who gets to define what is “acceptable,” and at what cost.

Read also: Inclusive or performative? What the AW26 season says about fashion’s diversity problem

The African paradox: colonial legacy at home

Modern workplaces and schools often appear neutral, framed around neatness. But historically and practically, they disproportionately target black hair.

Legal and institutional precedents reinforce this. In workplace discrimination cases, bans on braids or locs have been upheld under the guise of maintaining a “businesslike image,” even when such styles are natural or culturally significant.

These policies are rarely about cleanliness. Instead, they reflect a narrow, Eurocentric standard of grooming which excludes Afro-textured hair unless it is altered through heat, chemicals, or concealment.

The consequences are material. Studies and reports show that many Black women feel compelled to change their hair for job interviews, and some employers even deny them employment because of their natural hairstyles.

Perhaps most striking is that this systemic conditioning persists not only in the West but within African nations themselves. Across the continent, schools and workplaces have enforced bans on Afros, braids, and dreadlocks. Coincidentally, styles that are indigenous to African cultures.

In South Africa, for instance, students at Pretoria High School for Girls protested policies that forced them to straighten their hair or face punishment. Schools across Africa have explicitly banned dreadlocks, while others enforce low cuts. With the Ghana Education Service (GES) reaffirming that girls in public schools must keep their hair short… a rule that doesn’t apply to foreigners.

This is the paradox of postcolonial Africa. The internalisation of colonial standards to the point where African institutions themselves police our identity.

Read also: What would it truly mean for Nigerians to become more pro-Black?

Respectability politics and internalised bias

The persistence of these standards has also slipped into our personal beliefs, ideals, and, in some ways, our love of our hair.

For many Africans and people in the diaspora, straightening hair or avoiding certain styles began as a survival tactic. It can determine access to education, employment, and social mobility.

Nevertheless, these choices have become second nature, with many believing that our hair is not enough for “serious” events. 

Now and then, the internet poses a question: “Do black women dependent on wigs and weaves hate their natural hair texture?” The latest debacle was kicked off by TikToker, @sshozxox, who expressed that black women give more attention and care to their “wigs” than their natural hair.

The rebuttal has been unimpressive. This includes an infamous viral response comparing asking black women to constantly embrace their hair to whitewashing them,  stating that only white people maintain their natural hair texture. Ultimately, no one could properly articulate why, if they love their hair so much, it is never seen.

“The SS26 Lagos Fashion Week saw most of the models donning cornrows. The photos from the collections showcased how beautiful these garments also look with our braided styles. However, whenever most people wear these pieces, they often leave the braids out of their personal styling.”

Resistance and reclamation

Read also: Sevon Dejana on designing a viral collection and dressing Olandria for the Golden Globe Eve

Legislative efforts like the CROWN Act (Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair) recognise hair discrimination as a form of racial discrimination in the United States. This law makes it illegal to discriminate against people because of their natural hair texture. This challenges the legal frameworks that have long upheld biased grooming policies.

Globally, campaigns, protests, and cultural movements are pushing back against restrictive policies and redefining professionalism to include Afro-textured hair.

Yet progress is uneven. Even where laws exist, social attitudes lag. The stigma persists, often quietly, in hiring decisions, school policies, and everyday interactions. 

A perfect example is how the SS26 Lagos Fashion Week saw most of the models donning cornrows. The photos from the collections showcased how beautiful these garments also look with our braided styles. However, whenever most people wear these pieces, they often leave the braids out of their personal styling.

Our relationship with our textured hair doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and highlighting the lack of representation in the media and public spaces is not policing. It is exploring that, despite efforts made by growing movements, a lot of black girls do not feel confident in their hair.

Until they are, the discussions surrounding how we describe our hair and choose to wear it will reflect something deeper. If you can wear wigs, weaves, and extensions to work, school, and social spaces, then our natural hair should be acceptable too. As long as one texture is associated with negative connotations and seen as inherently more professional than another, what is being judged is not just hair, but identity itself.

Read more: Vintage hairstyles we’re excited to see make a comeback this year

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