September 15th 2024.
Hair used to be a source of frustration for me. But on the day of the school trip to Wembley to watch England play, it was the least of my worries. The excitement was palpable as my classmates and I sang, snacked, and played with our Tamagotchis. To add to the festive atmosphere, our teacher even went down the aisle of the bus, carefully painting red St. George's crosses on anyone who wanted one. "Red cross, move on. Red cross, move on," she repeated as she went from child to child. And then she reached me.
In a hushed voice, she asked me a question that I missed the first time. Confused, I leaned in closer as she asked again, "Are you English, Kim?" My face flushed with embarrassment as everyone turned to look at me. I wanted to disappear. But instead, I nodded and received my red cross, which might as well have been a stamp that read "APPROVED." It was one of the first times I realized that despite being born and raised in the same place as my friends, I would always be seen as "other."
Growing up in Romford, Essex, as a Black child in a predominantly white area, I always felt a sense of questioning around me. But for the most part, my childhood in the late nineties was a happy one, filled with plenty of friends. Ethnicity and culture didn't really play a role in our friendships. At most, I was designated as Mel B in our Spice Girls dance routines, but since she was my favorite, I didn't mind.
As we entered adolescence, our priorities shifted from dance routines to hair and makeup. Suddenly, we became very aware of our appearance, or in my case, how I didn't look like my friends. They started asking questions about my hair, innocently wondering why it grew out or why I didn't wear a ponytail like theirs. But these innocent questions only made me realize how different I truly was. I tried my best to answer, but there were some things I just didn't understand about my own hair. It was a constant reminder of how I didn't fit in.
Hair was a big, tangled thing for me. It felt like another barrier separating me from my non-Black friends. While they were all straightening their hair in the 2000s, I started relaxing mine, even though I could see the damage it was causing. I thought it would help me fit in and stop all the awkward questions. Looking back, it's a sad part of my story, but it's something I had to go through.
Once I left school, I started to untangle my relationship with my hair. I experimented with different styles and began to love my natural hair. I made more Black friends who inspired me to try new things and eventually, I stopped relaxing my hair. But it's a shame that I had to wait until I left school to find acceptance.
That's why when I became a children's writer, I wrote a book called "Me and My Hair," which celebrates the beauty of Afro hair. It features a variety of hairstyles and teaches readers how to care for Afro hair. My goal was to show that everyone should be able to wear their hair however they choose, regardless of their ethnicity. Our hair is a part of our identity, and we should celebrate our differences.
This book is also a love letter to every child who may not fully understand themselves yet. Today, I have two daughters with beautiful Afro hair, and they have a diverse group of friends who understand and appreciate different identities. They're already asking me to try every Afro hairstyle they see on YouTube. I know they will face their own challenges at some point, but it's my job as a mother to show them that no matter how they wear their hair, they will always be accepted and belong. They are not "other" like I once felt.
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