Good Hair

I've never had good hair.

Well, that's a not quite right.

I think I had pretty good hair when I was little. It was tougher than my sister's (which was always gorgeous and soft and abundant) but there was enough of it to make me happy.

But then it started breaking off when my stress and anxiety really kicked in around my 10th birthday, I think.

Before then, I remember having my hair combed and brushed by my nan. I would sit between her knees and she had this big pink brush and large toothed comb. She would use the comb to part my hair, grease my scalp with Vaseline or Ultra Sheen and comb it through. She'd use the big brush and pull it through my hair, my head resting on her knees. She hardly spoke; when she wanted me to move my head or keep it straight, she'd squeeze her knees together a little so that I had no choice.

My lingering memory of my nan doing my hair is how gentle she always was, I loved that time so much. She is a funny, spontaneously affectionate woman who has had a strikingly difficult life. She wasn't affectionate with her own children (the trauma cycle is very, very real and sadly such a huge part of many black families lives) but has always lavished affection on her grandkids and I always felt so loved when she did my hair.

I knew that having a child who was at least half black would mean potentially similar maintenance and I've been giddy about it. Some of my favourite times are quiet times with just the two of us and looking after her hair is an opportunity for both Jack and I to have that time with just her.

So, when her hair just refused to grow for the first 18 months, I have to admit I was a little sad! Stupid, I know. I should be happy that I've not had to fight with her to keep her still for 10 minutes so I can sort her hair out. And I was getting over it. Sort of.

But then her hair started thickening and lengthening and I started to get excited. It still has a way to go but now, if you put a brush through it, there's something for it to get caught up in. It's also been amazing watching Jack brush her hair after the bath and how excited ramona gets when she sees the brush, pulling at my clothes and reaching up on her tiptoes to get her hands on it and brush her hair herself.

As a mixed race child, she’s going to have issues with her hair. Most of the mixed people I know have had issues with racist bullies, awful work colleagues and just having to fight against the misogynoir that most of us encounter every day. One of my gorgeous cousins was just five when the bullying started about her hair and the colour of her skin.

And as much as I won’t be able to stop it happening, I will do whatever I can to give her the tools to cope with it. I want her to love every part of herself, no matter what. I want her to know how beautiful and important she is. Not just because it’s my job but because it’s the truth.