blackhairstudio.com

Happy Holidays From Blackhairstudio!

2010-12-23T15:29:00.000Z

To our wonderful followers and readers - the blackhairstudio team would like to wish you a very happy holiday!

Thank you so much for following this blog in the last twelve months - we have new blogs at http://blackhairstudio.com/blog where you will also find our new blogger Mod blog http://blackhairstudio.com/blogs/mod-blog. Come check them out!

Wishing you a Merry Christmas, and a happy good hair year for 2011!

The blackhairstudio team.

Calamity Jane: The Grand Pantomime - The Gym Part Two

2010-09-06T00:03:00.000+01:00

It’s a uniquely British phenomenon, to see the same people every day, at the same place, and often the same time and extend little more than a cursory nod or shy smile in their direction. And on the occasion where common courtesy becomes burdensome, we plain ignore their existence.

In the case of the gym this behaviour is entirely acceptable and evolved as a wilful attempt to avoid the vacuous non descript stream of consciousness that many a Lewisham gym member has the audacity to call conversation. To avoid the arduous, rigmarole about the weather (it’s always bad), work out regimes (protein shakes or starvation?), and how best to train without sweating out ones weave (do-rags, headscarves and shower caps appear to be a popular choice), I opt for silence.

I’m the quiet, non offensive observer, taking in all I see and hear without committing myself to discourse. My friend Yinka would have you believe I’m a spy, storing up information on my ‘poor’ unsuspecting victims. It’s nothing quite as Machiavellian; I’m simply a story teller, revelling in the opportunity to tell the tales that are so desperate to be told.

Some of my favourite characters……

Don Juan

Drop top car, some cheesy r’n’b pounding from the stereo, we wave knowing it is Don Juan arriving at the gym.

Curly, looking like it’s been permed hair with so much (soul glow) product, Sue Sylvester would implode with Glee and forgive Mr Shue his minor indiscretions in the hair department. Don Juan, as I came to know him, is quite the man about town, with his man bag and jerry curl hair, coupled with muscles of steel and a winning smile he’s certainly a ladies man, and I see why many a blond bombshell would quake in his wake. One occasion shattered my illusions, as we discussed literature, music and the parties he’d been to of late. Firstly I was disappointed that he had never heard of let alone read ‘Things fall apart’ (being half Nigerian himself), nor would he consider the importance of African literature, compared to the discerning titles of Men’s Health, Nuts, Zoo and alike. He described, what I later realised was Gold Coast the Ghanaian bar/restaurant, in Brixton as the venue his friends had recently dragged him to where they played bongo bongo music which he demonstrated with some spasmic movements I believe was a parody of traditional African dance. Muscles and a pretty smile, but Don Juan leaves a lot to be desired…

Del-boy

‘One more… Lift, lift, LIFT!’ he bellows furiously as he chastises one of his ‘boyz’. His torn t-shirt strewn surreptitiously around his bulging arms (revealing not quite muscle, not quite fat), his man boobs sneaking a little peep at the world from time to time. Amir (the Arabic Del boy) is the quintessential King of our gym. The King is the strong, buff, muscular, weights expert, able to lift twice his own body weight so spectacularly that the other goons gather round and watch in stunned appreciation. The King lifts dumbbells as heavy as a house – after which he slams them to the ground (instead of discreetly and quietly placing them down) with such might, it sends reverberations to the core of my soul (and literally has me bouncing off the floor as I attempt some sit ups). The King is the man that shouts loudly for all to hear ‘come on my son, you can do it’ as he wills his small, puny training partner to lift more weight (veins protruding from his neck as the weight nearly tears him apart) and like poodles they trail behind him in awe of his manhood (which I have no doubt is very small).

The King isn’t all bad. His appreciation of the human body is genuine, so when he complimented my arms the other day as I stretched, I knew it was genuine. My arms, the part of my body I hate the most. Large and cumbersome they are disproportionate to the rest of my body - When I looked at him stunned he said, “why do you ladies all want to look like you’re starving? You’re toned, nothing wobbles and your arms are sculpted what more do you want?” Ladies there is a lesson in this for us all. Skinny isn’t always best. Nobody but us is obsessed with looking like the girls in the magazines. Not even the king of the castle!

Perfection personified

Imagine a beautify so unfathomable you can’t believe it to ever be real. Well it is and it’s on the treadmill every time you go to the gym (having just about dragged your sorry and rather large behind in after a gruelling day at work, imagine being faced with perfection?), running effortlessly at a pace you hoped only sub human athletes (high on dope) ran at. Enviously you sneak a peak at the timer on the running machine, hoping she’d been running at such a pace for a minute or two, but oh no, you see she’s done 10k in a staggering 35 minutes and has probably been running that fast since puberty. Her relaxed hair, meticulously curled (never wrapped, just free to bounce in the wind – like a Vidal Sassoon advert), has not even a strand out of place and where sweat ought to be running down her face, her precision perfect (definitely not Sleek) make up glows flawlessly, radiating the perfection of her soul. Compared to the women who refuse to exert any real energy for fear of their hair becoming embroiled in sweat, this light skinned (ethnically ambiguous) beauty runs as though she’s possessed followed by so many chin ups, even the men, take a brief moment away from the mirror, to watch in awe. She sports a lycra two piece, sculpting her pert butt, thin legs and revealing her six pack. Me on the other hand (and most of the women I know) wear a t-shirt with shabby jogging suit bottoms a size too big to accommodate for the ‘guddush’ ‘guddush’ movement of my arse defying the laws of gravity every time I run.

We’re friends now; this perfect person and me…And I’ve found out that not only is she beautiful, but smart and funny (so we laugh at the men together). Her hair is natural now and the spiral corks even when running seem to bounce to a rhythm of their own. Free from chemicals her hair is even more astounding. It seems natural hair and the gym are NOT incompatible.

Mr T

On the rare occasion that Yinka graces the Lewisham gym we usually train together so we can spend the time laughing instead of working. On such an occasion, one of the regular gym patrons took quite a shine to her. Together we were contented, lifting dumbbells and squatting our behinds lower than any Ludicrous song would entice us to go, when a rather large, stout figure of a man who look like he popped steroids like popcorn (the no neck, bulging chest type) took it upon himself to assist Yinka with her weights (I was left to lull over our mistake alone). Tattoos covering every orifice, a plethora of gold chains around his neck, a backwards red Chicago Bulls baseball cap reminiscent of a 1990s Wesley Snipes (not fashionable then and certainly not now) and to top it off, a mass of gold teeth he revealed frightfully in what can only be presumed was a smile; Yinka’s new ‘self imposed’ personal trainer was a sight to behold. Arm in arm he led her away, as she looked back with frightful glances, in to the abyss that was the male weights area for a lesson in pumping and lifting technique. Petrified as she was when she returned she hastily fled to the changing room abandoning our cool down, for fear that any stretching would be misinterpreted as sexual provocation by her new ‘friend’.

So many more tales to tell… So little time. If you have any tales about of the gym let me know and we can laugh together…

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - The Holy Grail

2010-08-09T22:02:00.000+01:00

I have found the most wonderful product in the world - bar none! It’s my new Holy Grail, my go to during my many times of need, desperation and crispy hair! GLYCERINE J

Vegetable glycerine also known as vegetable glycerol is a carbohydrate that is usually derived from plant oils. It is used as a sweetener and as an ingredient in a number of cosmetic products and is also used in place of alcohol to extract botanicals.

Glycerine is known to improve moisture and smoothness to your hair. It provides lubrication and acts as humectants which means it draws in moisture into your hair and skin. Glycerine is also highly "hydroscopic" which means that it absorbs water from the air. For example: if you left a bottle of pure glycerine exposed to air in your kitchen, it would take moisture from the air and eventually, it would become 80% glycerine and 20% water.

The Science

Glycerine is an organic compound composed of three carbon atoms, hydrogen atoms, and three OH groups. These OH groups form hydrogen bonds with water, slowing down its movement and giving liquid glycerine the property of syrup. It is also resistant to freezing, a property used in storing sensitive liquids, such as enzymes, in laboratory freezers.

Its solubility in alcohol and water has led to vast utility in the manufacturing of products. Glycerine is used in a large number of cosmetic and household products, such as toothpastes and shampoo. It is also a component of glycerine soap, which is often used by people with sensitive skin. This soap acts as moisturiser to prevent the skin from drying out. For this same reason, glycerine lotion is also hugely popular.

There are also medical uses for vegetable glycerine. Glycerine suppositories are used as laxatives. It can also be used as a topical remedy for a number of skin problems, including psoriasis, rashes, burns, bedsores, and cuts. Glycerine is also employed to treat gum disease, as it kills associated bacterial colonies.

Benefits of Glycerine for Hair

Apart from being able to return moisture back to dry hair, scalp or skin, glycerine for hair growth is also used. Using glycerine you can condition dry, frizzy and brittle hair. If you are suffering from dry, flaky scalp then rubbing some vegetable glycerine on scalp can greatly alleviate irritation. This is especially beneficial for those trying to infuse moisture into their curly locks and those who suffer from dry hair or flaky scalp issues. Apart from moisturising benefits of glycerine for hair care, it also greatly helps to strengthen the hair, which leads to less breakage of the hair, and less formation of split ends.

Precautions

It is important that you avoid using glycerine if you are staying in a place, that has extremely dry weather because glycerine on skin or hair might attract moisture from the hair strands or the skin. This can result into blisters on skin, or make the hair even drier. However, if you are using glycerine in dry weather you can try mixing it with jojoba oil, and then use it on your hair or skin. Also, while using glycerine in regular weather, mix it with water and then apply it to keep your hair and skin well moisturised.

Recipe No.1

1/4 camomile tea
1 tsp honey
2 to 3 tsp glycerine
2 to 3 tsp of your favourite vegetable oil
3 to 6 drops essential oil (3 drops rosemary, as a preservative + 3 of your favourite one for smell or just 6 rosemary oil)
Put in a spritz and shake well, You can double the proportions of oil & glycerine if you wish, but keep honey low ... will last 2 weeks

Recipe No. 2

4 oz. of distilled water
2 Tbs. of Vegetable Glycerine
1 Tbs. of Jojoba Oil
5 drops of Rosemary Oil

My Recipe

· 25% Vegetable Glycerine

· 25% Conditioner (Hello Hydration)

· 50% Water

*I think I will begin using Aloe Vera juice in my mixture to add even more moisture*

Other products that contain glycerine include S-Curl No Drip Spray or Wave Nouveau Finishing Lotion, which many naturals have quote as staple hair products as these products are all "water/glycerine" based and provide your hair with excellent moisture.

Glycerine based products:-

· Oyin's handmade Juice and Berries (Order online) – apparently this smells gorgeous

Lusters S-Curl

Activator/Moisturizer

No Drip 355 ml Bonus

Wave Nouveau Moisturizer

Finishing Mist 500 ml

Soft Sheen Carson Care

Free Curl Instant Moisturizer 240 ml

Calamity Jane: The Peckham experience

2010-08-02T21:48:00.001+01:00

A friend recently commented that her colleague, who it surprised her read and enjoyed my blog (surprised because he is male, works in the city and wears one of ‘those’ rings on his little finger…) had proclaimed that the blog reminded him of the 1990s popular television show Desmond’s. Caught somewhere between humour and horror I decided his statement was worthy of further exploration…..

At first enraged by the crude statement that appeared to reduce the experience so many of us share to nothing more than a caricature, I felt slighted that there had to be a comparator at all. Why did my blog have to be the same as a show set in Peckham in some fifteen years ago? Not everything written about the east end of London is comparable with Eastenders. And yet the black experience is always reduced to a finite number of comparators otherwise it is unconscionable. For example a black woman has to look like someone for her beauty to be corroborated (Missy Elliot or Jennifer Hudson if you are fat, Whoopi Goldberg if you have a big smile and dreads, Beyonce if you are lucky, Alicia Keys if you are mixed race), as though there are five of us in total and we’re simply multitudes of the same person.

Then I thought back to Desmond’s with fond memories. Like most I fancied Sean despite his short and slight physique he was as cool as cool could be (no brains, but who needed them as a teenager?). Then there was his sister with her BAD weaves. No excuse for that on TV, even in the 90s. Porkpie and Matthew - The Caribbean and the African immigrant - At constant loggerhead and yet underlying every tension (and cultural slur) was love and respect. Peckham has come to embody more than just the microcosm of black (African and Caribbean) settlement, now the Polish, Czech, South African, Spanish, Chinese and Brazilians all live side by side discovering in equal measure the injustices and splendours London has to offer; All from the safe enclave of a barber shop, a patisserie (of which there are many should you stray off the beaten curve), a ‘dumplin’ shop or indeed the formidable God Bless salon. It’s too easy to relegate God Bless and Desmond’s to a mere caricature (although my tales are certainly meant to entice laughter), as it erodes the significant roles such establishments have played in settling (for many who are new to the country it provides a home from home where they are supported by people who share their cultural experiences, as they navigate their way through an alien and subversive time and place) and then showcasing their best to the world (Peckham is to patties and Jollof rice what Green Street or Brick Lane is to curry and naan bread).

My allegiance to Peckham is not borne of any fondness derived from my hair raising (pun intended) antics at the multitude of hair dressers which line the high street (interspersed only by fish shops, nail salons, wig shops and pie and eel shops – yes Del Boy’s legacy is alive and kicking), like tress in a suburban neighbourhood. Although I confess all of the above have come to form the exceptional character of the place. No, my penchant for Peckham is out of deep seeded principle over pride.

Ten years ago London became my home and Peckham the epicentre of my personal London experience. I recall with fondness my university friends comments of derision (don’t forget your bullet proof vest and your passport. Going that far you’ll need to be checked by an immigration officer to get back in) as I set off from our halls of residence for an afternoon in Peckham, where no-one questioned what food I was buying/eating, or why my hair went from being short to long of an afternoon. Nostalgia aside, the reality was you’d have been excused for thinking you were on the set of Boys in the Hood (minus the Kid and Play esq hair styles) when you entered Peckham from Dulwich (home of Margaret Thatcher) or Surrey Quays (going through its own transformation at the time – seeking to attract the Canary Wharf folk).. It was so polarised and pre Damilola Taylor (it takes tragedy to recognise poverty), a completely forgotten and abandoned place.

Ten years on and teetering on the verge of evolution and revolution Peckham pulsates with life and singularly embraces the multi faceted human diaspora; its streets are full of every walk of life. If there is one certainty about Peckham it’s that (to quote the great Sam Cooke) ‘a change is gonna come’… again and again and again.
Looking at the award winning Will Alsop designed library and leisure centre in the heart of Peckham (directly opposite the Kumasi market where I go and pick up Ghanaian food every Saturday - And is featured prominently on many a grime music video) which stands prominently on the landscape, a mish mash of colour bleeding out into the horizon. The modern flamboyant design is a stark contrast against the drab dilapidated Edwardian buildings (mixed with the worst of 1980s architecture) that surround it, and yet the vibrancy, energy and eclectic mix of the people using the library compliments the building’s architecture so eloquently and completely. Unfortunately I can no longer use what is a phenomenally successful community space as I owe the library something ridiculous in fines and had to pretend to be my own (fantasy) twin sister when returning my seriously over due books and quickly scuttle away into the dead of the night, before security were called and I was escorted off the premises.

Peckham has a particularly elevated place in my heart as I’ve watched it evolve and take hold of its once restless history, embracing the rapid cycle of change that has come to define its place in the fabric of the city. Thus if a comparison with Desmond’s is necessary I gladly welcome the analogy.

Calamity Jane - My Forever Protector

2010-07-25T21:48:00.000+01:00

A deeply fulfilling and visceral dream (featuring an indescribably hot man with the lips of Morris Chestnut, the body of Tyson - including the tattoos, and the intellectual swagger of Obama) is punctuated by a narcissistic breeze to the scalp and a strange chill in the bones. Stunned to wake it’s not your partner that you seek but your headscarf surreptitiously strewn to your side.

I’ve heard it referred to in many ways (tights, scarf, do-rag, bandana, cloth). The most offensive being my former flatmate who found it quite the adjustment to move in with me and all my ‘peculiar’ habits, including my ‘nasty head rag’ as he coined it. … Over time (I wore him down by wearing it at every opportunity) he came to accept it and now adds it to the long list of bewildering things he puts down to race (including the copious amounts of cocoa butter that can be found in my bathroom at any one time).

The headscarf is more than a source of preventing the unruly baby hair from fluffing up and cutting short the lifespan of a respectable hair style. It’s your friend, your comforter, your perfect acceptance of yourself.

It’s with you in moments of joy and rage… I recall my friend Yinka on one of her regular ‘nights in’ flicking between My Wife and Kids and the on goings of her street via the strategically positioned gap between her curtains. Taking neighbourhood watch to new extremes, Yinka is prone to sitting on her sofa, headscarf adorned, glasses on for maximum focus in her house clothes (ladies we all know what that means – the holey jogging suit that only the man you are to marry will ever see, the mismatching socks and misshapen, discoloured t-shirt that you can’t bring yourself to bin with I love NY splattered on the front from your trip to America ten years ago) watching the patrons of the Ghanaian restaurant (which they spell ‘restrant’ and has so few customers Yinka has decided is a front for laundered money) and the neighbouring Congolese video store (which evidence I am yet to decipher, has led her to believe is conducting child exorcisms) leave via her private car park. On one such occasion one patron who was ‘illegally’ parked in her bay (according to the letter she had concocted in the name of her management agent and stuck on the car windscreen), and had the gall to throw litter in front of her home. Blinded by rage Yinka wasted no time powering down ten flights of stairs (still in her house clothes) headscarf as full protection (psychologically anyway) to let it be known that his actions were ‘unacceptable’. What a scene to behold! Lucky she didn’t have her catapult (her words, not mine) or there would have been some serious repercussions.

It’s with you in the moments of pain and anguish…. Or as in this instance it was the lack of the headscarf that caused the pain and anguish. I recall reading an article in the Metro in which a young black woman who was dating a white man was writing in to ask (The Metro of all things) when was the right time to introduce him to the headscarf. I laughed out loud (so of course in compliance with tube etiquette everyone looked away from me in case I was crazy). You can imagine it – the roots starting to grow, the next relaxer not due for another two weeks and you going to bed snuggled up to your man, with your hair lying as flat as the new growth will allow, only to wake up (earlier than him as there’s work to be done before he can see you and recognise you) to find it standing stiff on its ends (as God intended) and no amount of wax, hair pomade or moose will make it rest the way a night of a tightly wrapped headscarf would do. The time for the introduction my friend is now!... If only for an extra thirty minutes in bed.

The headscarf has marked seminal moments in my life….. The pre-pubescent tights my mum would cut up and cover my hair with, insisting I wear at slumber parties amid girls whose limited experiences (Milton Keynes circa 1986) led to comparisons between my braids and caterpillars (cornroll) or weeds (the single plaits). Charming!

Twenty two years later and another seminal moment is marked by the headscarf. This time it’s the morning after Obama’s presidential victory and I recall vividly jumping off my sofa, headscarf flailing, and dancing the running man, with a hint of MC Hammer as a symbol of my ecstasy. Kobi,( a friend) and I would often joke about how well Michelle Obama must wrap her scarf at night as her hair, (even pre stylist) was always perfectly bump free. And if Russell Simmons were to do an ‘Obama’s House’ spin off (of ‘Run’s House’) did we think Michelle would appear in the morning for breakfast in the White House dining room in her PJs and matching headscarf?.. Imagine the furore…Clearly Kobi and I had too much time on our hands.

Ladies it’s time to wear our headscarf with pride and make the people (including men) in our lives accept it as we have. It doesn’t warrant being hidden away like some dirty secret between friends. No more jumping to attention when there’s a knock at the door, whipping it off and stuffing it down the side of the couch before making a bee line for any reflective surface available. Let the brothers see it, they have mothers and sisters don’t they? And for the non black men, for whom this is all new, let it be one of our ‘exotic’ charms.

Calamity Jane

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Hmmmm… Wig you say?

2010-07-13T23:11:00.003+01:00

This week I wanted to touch on an interesting area that I happened to have stumbled upon in discussion twice during the week. Interestingly, the topic of wigs came up during a semi-intoxicated chat following Friday drinks at work and the discussion focused around ridiculous hairstyles.

A friend recalled a time in school when a girl came back from the Caribbean with her straight Caucasian hair in braids with beads swinging fiercely at the ends. As a result of her new experimental ‘hair do’ she was promptly made to take her hair out or risk being suspended from school. The argument on her part (and rightly so may I add) was one of discrimination. How was it that the black girls were permitted to wear braids but she was not? It’s obvious that the girl was criticised because her hairstyle was seen as only acceptable for black girls. It was probably deemed odd for her to attend school with her ‘holiday hair’. Whatever the reason though, it got me thinking about the hairstyles that black men and women choose to wear.
Wigs are huge business these days, long gone are the days when they were just used for medical reasons or for high powered barristers to decipher importance in court or for the judge to pass sentence, gabble in hand. In fact, often, even those that lose hair through illness are the ones that may now wear their bald heads proudly.

However, in 2010, wigs are all about making a fashion statement. You can craft a specific look without suffering your own hair. I mean mega star, Lady Gaga is the queen of wigs and Christina Aguilera and Pink are both patent heirs to her thrown. When entertainers do don a wig it’s all a bit jovial and entertaining, so why am I almost embarrassed at the sight of a black woman on the street in a wig?

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of wigs that look great on some women but there is a certain type of wig that makes me cringe. The wigs that are glued onto a stocking cap, stocking foot or person’s head and sometimes directly onto their hair. You know the ones that are so shiny it looks like a head full of PVC? And you’re often left wondering why on earth they’ve gone out with a piece of black bag stuck to their heads. I mean seriously, fix up! I’m not really concerned with how much it all cost because regardless of the cost, it looks funny…literally, funny!!

Okay, let’s give it constructive critical look, would it be considered ‘normal’ for a white woman to don a black afro?

The answer is No. Why? Because frankly, it looks silly and unless it was for fancy dress, you wouldn’t find a white woman seriously trying to work a fake fro as if it were her hair. However, as black women we do it all the time.

Why is easier to find an image of a black women in a blonde wig wearing it as if were her own than it is to find a white woman doing the same?
It’s unfortunate that we have been too long conditioned to believe that long, straight, limp hair is beautiful and hair that grows upwards is unruly, unkempt and needs to be tamed. The mindset is the same all over the globe; where there is a television set and media broadcasts there will be Western philosophies and ideals that project a predetermined norm on a culture that doesn’t fit.

The lengths that some women go to have long and seemingly luxurious hair, sometimes at the expense of their own head of hair and sometimes scalp have and will not change. For some people (both men and women) natural hair just doesn’t reflect the image they are trying to project.

Look at what Naomi Campbell has done to herself. The struggle to live up to a standard that isn’t her default ‘norm’ is disheartening and as a black women I’m saying; ‘just let your soul glow’ and make decisions based on knowledge not popularity.

Of course, I may be biased with my nappy curls. I totally appreciate that variety is what makes life interesting but don’t be caught up/out in your own ignorance, be aware of the decisions you make and perhaps that new hairstyle won’t cost you your pride or maybe even your hair.

Controversial? Chime in and let me know your thoughts.

As always, Peace Love and Nappyness xx

Calamity Jane - The Land of Hope

2010-05-16T19:55:00.001+01:00

Emerging from the plane seeing the sprawl of Accra before my eyes I can feel I’m at the precipice of real change. As I drive past Airport Hills (where some of the wealthiest people in the country live), Cantonments and East Lagon where the white structures (too large to actually call them homes) span acres upon acres of land, Buckingham Palace dwarfed by comparison, my mum‘s derisive call of ‘drug dealers’ does nothing to mar my overwhelming feeling of pride for the physical, social and economic change that is taking place in this country.

It’s a telling tale of the change that is taking place in this country when eight years ago the same flight would have been full to the brim of Ghanaians (using every gram of their 40kilos luggage, with six suitcases a piece), the occasional Jamaican on a journey of self exploration and the white UN aid worker. Now the demographic makeup resembles a flight to Spain or a tube journey in central London. With oil Ghana has become a desirable destination to the world of commerce and as a result Accra an incredibly cosmopolitan city.

The desire for a better Ghana is palpable! It’s in the eyes of the people; always warm, and inquisitive, but of late, lustful for money and empowerment. It’s in the people’s ever growing entrepreneurship and enterprising skills, not traditionally a quality we were famous for, but as the demands of the country have changed, so has the people’s resilience and drive to profit from those changes.

Amid all the revolutionary sentiment is a realism that plunders the soul... The economic prosperity of many Ghanaian women is inextricably bound to the transfer of sex for money. Not prostitution in the traditional sense of soliciting on the streets (although that does exist), but rather a societal norm (not accepted, but tolerated) of relationships between substantially older men and young girls, devoid of any love but predicated on an arrangement of money, power, sex and eventual domination. These ‘relationships’ are visible within every social strata and particular among the middle classes, many of whom have lived or studied abroad. Shocking for a land that spawned my grandmother whom despite rearing ten children, would travel the breadth of Ghana making an earnest living through trade. And then my mother who is my inspiration and has raised two feisty, strong liberated women. Who is to blame for the demise of female liberation in Ghana? Let us start with MTV.....

I’m all for (to coin a Dizzee phrase) ‘fixing up and looking sharp’, but to what end?.... The streets of Accra are lined with salons, beauticians, wig and hair shops and with the cost of beatification so low (even relatively speaking), it takes a strong woman to not succumb to the pressure of looking like a P.Diddy music video hunny. It may sound familiar – Peckham? Brixton?.. Or any number of places blacks dwell, but there is a sinister element in developing countries like Ghana, for which economic empowerment in the west has meant women here, to an extent, have escaped.

A friend of mine working for a British Company in Ghana told me about her first few weeks at work. She went in dressed in the same attire she had previously worn to work in London – a smart but not pretentious pencil dress from Dorothy Perkins, flat and sensible shoes, minimal make up and relaxed hair pulled back neatly. She felt grossly underdressed and drab compared to her Ghanaian colleagues. Even the lowly paid admin assistants were wearing designer labels, carrying Gucci and Christian Dior handbags. Discontented she turned to her mother, who surmised the issue facing young women in Ghana (and in fact the developing world) so aptly - she reminded her that these girls sauntering around in designer suits with perfectly manicured nails and weave (many of whom were not given the opportunity to go to university and those few who did found only lowly paid administrative roles available to them upon graduation), were the same girls sleeping on mattresses on the floor of their parents’ dilapidated accommodation (with very few prospects of ever owning their own property independently – unless through marriage). They attributed undue value to wearing nice and over priced clothes that they could ill afford instead of saving their pennies, because it attracted the men who would eventually support them financially.

One evening I head out dancing with Esmeralda, my friend who moved back to Ghana (having lived in the UK for ten years) and her friends. I fashion myself on Sex and the City chic and take pride in the quirky gems many a flea market in Deptford has unearthed... The girls are set to go out and for the first time I feel frumpy, in my floral, pleated, circa 1950s dress. It may be all the rage in boho east London, but next to the two of them, boobs hiked to the hills, micro miniskirts hugging their undulating thighs I feel like the clown. I don’t recall the last time I wore something so short and tight – Indeed I do, I was 16 and my mum had to come and collect me after being rejected from a club for looking ridiculous!

My final day and I chose to observe the city alone. At a wonderful little Lebanese restaurant I sat alone on the balcony watching the world go by (every real Ghanaian sitting indoors with the Air Con avoiding the 35 degree sunshine – I the token Brit am sweating outside knowing the rain that is in store upon my return). I’m drawn to the women in the big cars, chauffer driven around the city, with the house boy jumping at their every command and maids rearing their children by their side. I cannot help but wonder at what price? How many are self made women (earning money for themselves) and how many willingly ignore their husbands’ indiscretions in order to live their lives of luxury.

Calamity Jane - Coming of Age

2010-05-09T19:39:00.000+01:00

The concept of aging is difficult for me to accept, as most days I wake up after eight hours sleep (any less and I can’t function) a little bloated (if I’ve eaten after 7pm the night before as my digestive system can’t handle late meals), and think I’m 18.

When people refer to the ‘youth’, I categorise myself as such. So when random uncles (never the aunties as they know better) stop my mum and me in Sainsbury’s, and compliment her with some farcical story about us looking like ‘sisters’, I’m forced to smile through gritted teeth (because to do otherwise would be rude and would reflect badly on me, my mum, the family... the world!), and agree in good humour (masking my rage) that my mother really has done well and looks extremely good. By the time I get home I feel fully righteous sulking like a child.

I am 28 years old and as much as I may feel full of youthful spirit, I am so far from a ‘youf’ it’s hard to comprehend. The irony is, the realisation is only too apparent when in the presence of an actual ‘youth’ and they do something so discombobulating I am reminded that I have nothing but disdain for most young people.

When I see the teenage girls in the morning hanging round the bus stop, doing all they can to catch the attention of the boys, I’m always in awe of the effort they’ve exerted on their hair and makeup and general presentation. Even the tom boys look way better than in my day. What a sight to behold... The 13 year old girls with their weaves down to their backside, so well coiffed you’d imagine they’d just left the salon. Bright false nails, make up perfectly applied (my cocoa butter and Vaseline combination doesn’t compare) wearing the funkiest trainers you’ve ever seen, they look like they should be on set for a music video rather than on route to school.

It’s like I blink and a lifetime has passed and I am so out of sync I am positively stone age, or ‘old school’ as my teenage cousin likes to say. Never is this realisation more prolific than when I witness my cousins in conversation with their parents.... To even be present in the room amongst adults is a privilege I rarely had. Back in the day, when my parents’ friends arrived (the nameless uncles and aunties), my sister and I hung around just long enough to conduct our duties - the cordial offering of drinks and the answering of trite mundane questions: ‘Yes auntie, school is going well… I’m in year nine now, coming top of the class (never have, never will) preparing for GCSE’s and world domination’ (they liked that one). Then that was it. Duty done I was banished upstairs to leave the grown folks to their chatter. Now my cousins stay plonked on the sofa, flicking through the music channels at the speed of light creating their own homage to Hype Williams. They chip in to the conversation as they like, teasing the adults, raising topics they are interested in and cracking jokes at the old folk’s expense. Shocking!

I recall when I was about ten coyly broaching the subject of sex whilst my mum was deeply engrossed in cooking. My mother remained focused on her cooking, not even raising her head from the stove, (thus lulling me into a false sense of security) and simply asked who at school had told me. Without a moment’s hesitation, she branded my friend a whore and asked me to cease our friendship immediately.

The final indictment to cement my coming of age took place on Christmas at my aunt’s house where I’d spent my formative years, playing with her kids, nieces and nephews. The conversation began as it always does among middle aged women, with stories of their ‘successful’ children – which in turn reflects well on them as mothers for having successfully raised their children. There’s always an underlying element of competition in any chats between these women – an attempt to use their children to outdo one another and ultimately prove one family and one mother over the other. Entertaining as it was to watch, my aunt gloating and mother feigning indifference, it was only when my aunt strayed openly onto the topic of her sixteen year old son’s sex life that I sat up and took note. My intrigue was less about the content of the conversation and more the freeness with which it was being discussed. Auntie had the gall to joke that when my cousin was heading out clubbing she’d remind him to take his keys, his money, and would smack her back pocket (think Kerry Catona - pre crack- in the Asda advert) symbolising a condom. Mum laughed, my uncle looked proud and I cringed at the loss of my youth.

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Black Men, Black Hair

2010-05-05T07:05:00.003+01:00

‘Who said a black man couldn’t love a woman with natural hair?’

The quote of the day comes from a couple on a facebook group entitled ‘Black Men who Love Women with Natural Hair’.

When I started my ascent into ‘naturaldom’ I never thought about how men may perceive me or how their approach may change. I was in a new relationship with a man that seemed happy with my appearance. I was just thinking about the new experience, how good it felt to be 100% me excluding all fixtures and fittings but I couldn’t help but note how the scales tipped.

During the straight days I was often approached by men, hell, I had a good few on my checklist, on standby, waiting to be one of the chosen few (lol!) but as soon as I started growing my own hair it all changed. It reaffirmed the age old message that men are superficial creatures (as if I could forget), just as superficial as us women, they don’t see hidden depths in an appearance, they see breasts, hips and ass and if many of them are to have it there own way, long, straight hair.

You see, from what I have noted, black men are attracted to long hair (an attribute which is never associated with black women) and who can blame them? Their mothers, sisters, aunties, cousins all sport the same look and long hair is considered good hair, hair that many black women aspire to have. Now on this note, I am fully aware that many of my blog posts may be considered a generalisation, an account that makes black men seem ignorant but stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason and I guarantee that ALL of you reading this piece of editorial know a black man that puts ‘good haired’ women on a pedestal and wouldn’t spit on us nappy’s. But is that such a bad thing?

I mean yes, the majority of the kind of men that used to approach me don’t anymore but the ones that do, come with intelligent conversation and genuine comments. They are less absorbed in the flesh, blood and bones of this land and more concerned with content of your inner. Obviously, this is just my experience and I can’t speak for every natural out there but I did think that this would be a good opportunity to get a male opinion on the topic of black women with natural hair.

“Ok, so where do I begin. I suppose I should start by introducing myself… nah, on second thoughts, I think I’ll delve straight into the heart of the issue. Before I do so though; I’ve got some questions, not from the ‘black male’ perspective although I am a black male asking, ‘‘can we have some perspective here/hair please ladies’’?

Right… Why would you choose to have your hair in any other textural state than it was intended (… and that, ‘it’s easier to manage’ nonsense won’t wash)? What’s the real reason behind mercilessly ‘frying’ and chemically burning into submission your eau-naturelle strands? Is it social acceptance? Is it a negative self-image which is apparently remedied by; weave; wigs and perms? Does it in all actuality, point towards a lack of self esteem? Are the fake nails, fake eyelashes, and general ‘makeup’ indicative of some form of mental imbalance? Look, before you get upset, like I said; let’s have some perspective.

How do I view black women who go against the grain and don their natural hair?

Generally, I think it’s a ‘power move’. I think it shows strength of character and in a sense, leadership qualities. Remember, in former flourishing civilisations, females held the reigns and steered their nation onto great things for telling durations of time.

I think it demonstrates willingness to, metaphorically, detach from the masses… And Self Actualise. FYI. Self Actualisation isn’t ‘new age’ phenomenon – all it means is; you don’t ‘business’ what opinions people have of you. Not that you’re unaware of others opinions, just that you Trust and Value your own opinion more. It’s, based on a famous theorists, pinnacle of human needs, as in; your needs are generally satisfied through rationality, soul searching and/or internally. If you still don’t get it; are you comfortable with your own company?

I’ve found that when I hit the roads with my ‘missus’, be it: dinner, raving or… museums, the compliments are literally consistent. This leads me to believe that more of you females would take the bold step and go eau-naturelle if you thought you wouldn’t be marginalised, and viewed as unattractive.
I’ll close with this; if you’re curious, go for it! There’s a saying, ‘Enter Any Action With Boldness’.”

Swoon!!! Smart and good looking! Preach…

For me, the bottom line is live how you want but make informed decisions. Black men that tend to favour Eurocentric hair types don’t do so out of a pre-determined preference but out of instinctive ignorance - the same ignorance that almost forces black women to alter their hair texture.

Natural women ARE sexy and just to prove my point I thought I’d leave you with a little eye candy this week. Check out my natural hotties from the fore mentioned facebook page and if you have the time, log on and check out the discussion boards but beware, you may be left arguing with the screen for a few hours!

Peace, Love and Nappyness!

KN

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Hairy Situations

2010-04-21T09:30:00.002+01:00

You might remember me retelling my initial experience with my newly found, naturally bald head but I’m not sure if mentioned that the person that triggered the daring cut was one of my white colleagues. You see, for some reason, they appreciated what I did not and saw the potential for an amazing new ‘do’. But had it had not been for the encouragement in the work place (where my brown skin is a minority) i.e. my office manager telling me that i look like a ‘wonderfully, androgynous, little thing’ and praising every bit of growth and new styling technique; would I have still felt comfortable rocking my kinky head of hair in a corporate environment?

You see I work in PR, an area associated with the media and considered fashionable and accepting of new and innovative, daring styles, but i’m not a consumer ‘PR-ist’, it’s not glitz and glamour, it’s technology, its B2B and it's corporate, so when I am meeting clients I do tend to whip out my lip ring but tame my hair? Never! Why? Because my working environment has taught me that it is acceptable because it is ME. I do wonder however, if I were to leave my fabulous work place to venture elsewhere and begin that dreaded interview process all over again, would my hair affect my ability to get a job?

This week’s blog is triggered by an article in Glamour Magazine, citing the same issues about African hair and the workplace. I’ve copied and pasted it below for those of you too lazy to click on the link but have a read.

“Almost every black woman has had a ‘hair moment,’” said Farai Chideya, who went on to share hers with a roomful of women at Glamour’s Women, Race and Beauty panel last November. It was when a higher-up once commented that her braids made her look unprofessional. Judging from the heads nodding, most of the women in the diverse audience had heard something similar—or worse—about their looks. And it hurt.

The roundtable, which featured brilliant women of every ethnicity, was a high point in Glamour’s year, but it was triggered by a low point. Last summer, a former staffer made an unauthorized presentation to a group of female attorneys in which she commented that, in her view, Afros were “a Don’t” for work. Glamour management found out about her remark two months later and was floored. (Click here for our response.) We shared the outrage of hundreds of you who wrote in to voice disagreement. The idea that a woman cannot be herself and still get ahead at work runs contrary to Glamour’s message of empowerment.

Your letters made one thing clear: Many women of colour still feel judged according to racially biased beauty norms in their careers and sometimes even in personal relationships. It’s not just about hair and it’s not just about African American women, as you’ll see from the variety of testimonials on these pages. At a time when women of all shapes, sizes, colours and manner of hairstyles are increasingly seen in magazines and on TV and movie screens—and when Toni Morrison, the first African American woman to win the Nobel Prize for literature, proudly wears her dreads—multicultural beauty acceptance hasn’t pervaded our lives as much as we’d like to think. Those same dreads could cost you a promotion in some offices, noted some letter writers; one reader said reactions to her natural hair at work “made it seem like I’d entered a meeting in jeans and a T-shirt.” But going with straightened hair isn’t simple either, said panellist Lisa Price, founder of Carol’s Daughter beauty products: An African American woman who wants to experiment with extensions may be seen as a sell-out. Fear of saying the wrong thing stops most people from making the next crucial step—talking openly about these beauty standards. So Glamour brought together a group of journalists, academics and businesswomen to take that step. Listen in on their discuss

http://www.glamour.com/magazine/2008/02/race-beauty-panel

What are your thoughts and experiences in this area? Do you feel or know that you were turned down for a job because of the way looked? I had a friend who though she was never invited to interviews because her surname sounded too African...hmm interesting concept.

Peace, Love and Nappyness to you all xx

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Long hair don't care!!!

2010-04-14T06:49:00.000+01:00

Those that know me know that I am slightly obsessed with taking care of my hair. Even with my relaxed hair I was always very interested in growing a healthy head of hair.

During my relaxed days, I was often changing hair styles and cuts and this often meant growing my hair longer to achieve the desired style. However, my hair wouldn’t grow back properly at the nape of my neck. The hair back there has always been fine and years of shaving, toxic abuse and wrapping headscarf’s around ‘barely there hair’ took its toll and the hair just wouldn’t grow back, it would always appear patchy once it grew to a certain length but it didn’t really bother me. I just would just go ahead and cut it all off again.

When I started the natural process and my short, cropped hair begun to grow back, I was curious to see whether the back of my hair would come through for me properly and to my surprise it did. It grew back finer than the rest of my coarse naps and has some of the longest hairs on my head. In fact, my hair just generally grows much quicker now and I can actually get this fro into a single ponytail (yay!) so my goals are changing. My hair idol has hair around belly button length and yes, I intend to get there too but one step at a time!

Some of you may look at these naps and think I’m crazy but my next hair goal is armpit length and I fully believe that I will get there in no time. But there are plenty of cynics out there who actually believe that if you have afro hair it won’t grow and the only way to have long hair is to pay for it, so I thought we’d delve into this a little further.

Some of you may be familiar with the concept of terminal length. Some interpret this to mean that the majority of hair on an individual’s head reaches a certain length and then that’s it. I don’t personally believe in a limit to hair growth. Furthermore, all of the hair cannot reach a terminal length at the same time, because they weren’t “born” at the same time. Hair is always growing, but it is also always falling. It is believed that the life cycle of growing hair is anywhere from 2-7 years before the hair falls out. So faster growing hair can accomplish more in this time period. This is where genetics factors in to determine the length of the growing phase and how quickly the hair grows during this time. Keep in mind that the rate of hair growth also slows with age. Some women on the hair forums describe their hair reaching a terminal length of shoulder length or arm-pit length (apl), because it always breaks off at this particular length. I think that this limitation is due to poor care practices fragile hair types that are more susceptible to damage. These include the use of chemicals, rough handling of hair, inadequate moisture and not using protective styles (although not everyone needs to use protective styles to achieve long hair but I definitely do).

Many factors come into play in determining hair length. One factor that I will not include singularly is hair type. I mention this because many black women believe to achieve long hair they must relax/straighten the hair or that they must have a looser hair texture. Yes, looser/straighter hair is usually easier to detangle and tends to knot less often (less damage=more retention), but it does not grow faster. The average rate of growth is 1/2 inch a month with some individuals averaging more or less. Because of the fragile nature of kinky hair, issues often arise with how to detangle and care for the hair properly. This leads to most never achieving their possible length potential. There is also a theory that coily hair growth may be slowed down upon exit out of a curved follicle (the follicle shape determines the strand texture). In curly-headed individuals, the hair follicle below the scalp has a hooked end. More hooks produces even curlier hair. Genetics determines the rate of hair growth, so it is sometimes helpful to look at family members experiences with hair length, but not always. For more on terminal length and genetics, read this informative article on Terminal Length and the Role of Genetics in Black Hair Care by Audrey Sivothosy.

My tips in previous blogs will help with growing your hair long but If you are interested in further information about growing your naps longer also try visiting ‘Grow Afro Hair Long’ http://www.growafrohairlong.com/index.html

Calamity Jane - The Gym

2010-04-12T22:30:00.002+01:00

I am a member of the infamous Fitness First in Lewisham. Regarded as such not for any frivolous reason like celebrity clientele (although I did once spot someone from Eternal – not the sisters, the other one - and as discreetly as I could, made a beeline for my phone to share the news with everyone I knew), but rather for its diabolical customer service. 1990s trashy euro pop music videos on repeat (God forbid they play music that actually appeared in the UK chart), moody staff, faulty machinery, broken air con machine; dilapidated crumbling walls, changing facilities that smell of rotting animal and a general sub standard service. Its sole reason for continued trade is its proximity to public transport, lack of viable competition, fantastic instructors (there’s nothing like spinning at 7am with Jamie or Errol; garage and grime beats blaring from the speakers and the instructor at the front like a conductor pushing forth his orchestra). The real reason it exists is because it’s located in a poor neighbourhood where people don’t feel empowered enough to write letters of complaint and report them to the Evening Standard.

It’s January and the Christmas gorge (despite the recession people still have money for a feast) guilt has set in. The gym is as packed and it’s a sight to behold.

There’s the girl with the hard face who only smiles when there are men in the vicinity, whose relaxed short crop is so newly permed you can smell the chemical relaxer oozing from her pores as she sensually struts on the cross trainer (often in batty rider shorts - which she clearly customised from a once respectable pair of trousers and a circa 1990 crop top). She once proudly proclaimed that she avoided sweating to save her hair. I would say her inspiration for the gym was less the working out and more working men.

There is the beautiful girl with the funky long weave, who loves her hair as much as life itself. You can tell by her incessant stroking and touching, whipping her head at any given opportunity for the most grandiose effect. With every bounce of that hair, you can see her jubilation and heightened sense of worth. We once talked about going natural (and managing it with all the gym) and she looked me straight in the eye and without even the faintest hint of irony, proclaimed with pride that her hair was indeed natural. She mustn’t have seen her natural hair in excess of fifteen minutes every four weeks for the last ten years. That’s the time in-between weaves where she washes it, quickly covers it up in a baseball cap and runs to the salon hoping nobody will spot her on the bus.

The most interesting sight to behold is the assortment of ostentatious head gear proudly on display. In the Covent Garden Fitness First or indeed the Clapham or Purley gyms, the only head gear you may occasionally view is the sweat band of the ardent runner. In Lewisham, scarves, bandanas, do-rags, tights (flash back to your childhood when your mum made you wear them at night) are all tightly wrapped round women’s heads to contain the beast within. I’ve even witnessed a shower cap (not in the steam room, as one may reasonably assume, but on the treadmill). The woman had conditioned her locks, put on her cap and was pounded the treadmill for the ultimate deep conditioning steam.

For all the humour the women afford it is the men that are the truest of spectacle. In January it was them that attended in their droves, flexing their muscles in a wilful display of alpha masculinity. Pumping, lifting, grunting - they exert such rigour; it’s a wonder they have any energy for other things in life.... like a job. My initial observation was that the scene that befell me, was to mask some kind of closeted homoeroticism. The touching, the grunting, the intentional rubbing of sweating pulsating bodies, precipitated one reasonable conclusion - GAY.

As time went on I realised that their show of moronic masculinity was indeed for the benefit of one another (only occasionally did they preen over a woman as intently as they did one another) but there was no homosexual tendency. It was simply a performance, a grand opera, to assert their role as King of the castle. In the most base terms, men always believe they can impress a woman – even the run down, didn’t brush my hair, wearing yesterday’s clothes man will still have the audacity to approach a respectable woman, with nothing intelligent to say other then ‘pssst, pssssssst, sexy giarl, I like your backside. Can I take your number?’.

The end of my workout beckons and I drag myself to the mat area to endure the mandatory five minute waste of time, abs session. Full steam ahead I go. Dropping to the mat and rising again like a deranged jack in the box. Then out of nowhere, one of the goons stands directly behind me, so close my sweat surely must flick onto his legs. He gives the cursory nod to a man nearby (not sure if they even know one another or it’s some kind of unspoken code of conduct), he pays me no mind (indeed it’s as though the mat rather than the person on it is the only thing in view) and with no shame or even the hint of humour, lifts his top up, tenses his abs and gawks at his own reflection. He turns from side to side, getting a good view from every profile and after a full five minutes (which is a long time to stare at yourself in a public forum) he drops his t-shirt, gives himself a self ingratiating smile and saunters off. Displaying not even a glimpse of embarrassment.

Spent from fighting my way on to the machines (which the non sweat brigade used until water penetrated their weaves) and dehydrated from inhaling the pong and fumes (no air con makes for a very smelly room). I trudge home, having experienced quite the psychological workout, to eat cake and sooth my fragile nerves!

Dedicated to my father, who thinks the gym is an unproductive waste of time. And anyone who has time to go on several occasions over the course of a week needs to either get a second job or find something more intellectually changeling to occupy their time. Having watched those peacock men, strut around the gym showing off their feathers, I am inclined to agree with my dad.

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Nappy Regime

2010-04-07T13:38:00.001+01:00

So this week was the dreaded weekend. Why? Because it involved wash day! Yes, every three weeks (well, in the winter, probably more so in the hotter months) it rolls around and i get to do my beloved treatments and try out some new fandangle deep conditioning method. So this week I thought I would take you through my hair regime.

Below is a picture of the products I used (I forgot to include the egg and herbal tea I used).

Every month I try and henna my hair as this is my chosen protein treatment. People in South Asia, North Africa and the Middle East have been using henna for years as part of their hair regime because its conditioning properties ensure strong, shiny hair that has an instant fullness. Don’t believe me? Try it out for yourself.

Now, I mix one and a half packs of henna with green tea that has cooled, honey and one egg and let the mixture sit for one hour (the length of time depends on the type of henna).

In that hour it’s time to detangle and as you have all heard, this can prove to be a time consuming process…tip to root!

After shampooing once with my gorgeous, candy smelling Neutrogena Triple Moisture shampoo, that you can only sadly get in the US, and conditioning with Hello Hydration, I allowed my hair to air dry for 20 minutes before applying the henna mixture. I know I said that I only rarely use shampoo but my hair was full of product and greasing up my pillow so it was a must.

Now this I where it gets messy…Once the henna is mixed it looks like mud and smells like bush or forest floor or hay, so once I have applied it generously all over my hair, I wrap and seal the stench with cling film and leave it to sit for six hours…that’s right, six minimum!

Silly me! I bought the wrong henna packet and this one had loads of twigs in it! This was a nightmare to get out. The mixture takes a good few rinses go get rid of on a good day but the twigs made things even more difficult. After rinsing and co-washing (washing with conditioner) for about 20 minutes, I left my hair to deep condition with Hello Hydration for two hours but my hair was instantly fluffy and thick.

Since I didn’t actually wake up and start the treatment process until 11am by the time I finished it was 11pm (I left my henna in for eight hours) and I was knackered. Nevertheless, my hair still needed to air dry before I could twist it. I just slapped some Elasta QP Mango Butter in my hair, finger combed and plait in small sections so it so would dry overnight and bish bash bosh, the job was done!

Henna Facts:

Always ask for body art quality henna and not henna for hair, it has too many chemicals in it. I get mine in a wholesale shop on Ealing Road but anywhere where there is a prominent Asian community should stock it
Henna does dye your hair; it is a natural colorant for hair. The original stuff will dye your hair a deep red colour (depending on your natural shade) but there are some alternatives such as Indigo/ black henna. I understand Lush also stocks henna with the same conditioning properties
You can use henna on natural or chemically processed hair types
Stronger Hair – When the lawsone (dye) molecule goes into the hair it penetrates the hair shaft some, binding with the keratin in the hair. This makes hair stronger, but also is one of the qualities that make henna removal near impossible. Henna also coats the hair and fills in rough spots on a frayed cuticle. This adds a second layer of strength, but it does not lock out moisture
Henna makes your hair dry so it is important to follow up with a deep moisturising conditioner or your hair can become very brittle
Loss or reduction in curl- The protein in the henna weighs down hair strands and this in turn elongates your curl pattern and reduces shrinkage. If your curls/coils are quite loose, it may be an idea to try an alternative like cassia or bentonite clay

Please note that all of the information presented in my blogs is based on my personal experience. Make sure that you follow the links or Google any products or treatments that you are interested in using so you are fully aware of the positive and negative aspects.

Catch up next week…

Peace, Love and Nappyness J

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Napptural Product Connoisseur

2010-03-24T07:32:00.001Z

One very positive aspect of being natural is that you tend to focus your energy on products/ ingredients you use in your hair, put on your skin and in your body. The effect is healing and has made me ever more conscience of the products I use. Growing up you’re exposed to hair grease and drying shampoo’s but I’m here to let both you naturals and relaxed chica’s and fella’s (if there are any out there!) in on a few secrets about the products out there.

Many commercially available hair care products denoted as being for afro hair use harmful ingredients. The following ingredients are awful for ethnic or African hair, not only stifling our hair’s health, true texture, and hair growth, but also harmful to the body.

1) Isopropyl Alcohol: Dries and Breaks Ethnic hair. It is found in colour rinses, anti-freeze

2) Mineral Oil/ Petrolatum (Hair Grease): It used as a moisturiser in afro hair care products; however, it coats Ethnic hair, actually preventing moisture from getting into the thirsty hair. It is a derivative of crude oil and a cheap industrial grease component. It also prevents the release of toxins from hair and alters the skin respiration by preventing oxygen release. Mmmhmmmm....

3) Polyethylene Glycol (PEG): Strips afro hair of critical moisture. Used as an emulsifier in products, dissolves oils and grease.

4) Propylene Glycol (PG): An active component in many afro hair care products make up, lotions, mouthwashes, and deodorant, PG is the active component of anti-freeze and actually deteriorates the protein and cellular structure of hair. Protein is what your hair needs to thrive. Workers actually use gloves and goggles when dealing with this substance due to its chemical side effects and toxicity.

5) Sodium Lauryl Sulfate (SLS)/ Sodium Laureth Sulfate (SLES) : A cheap foaming and thickening agent that strips hair of moisture and causes skin and scalp irritation. 95% of all hair shampoos contain this ingredient or a derivative. Avoid it completely; TEA lauryl is just as bad, if not worse. Do not be fooled by the use of the word TEA. Hence why i very rarely use shampoo and stick with conditioners.

6) Diethanolamine (DEA), Momoethnanolamine (MEA), Triethanolamine (TEA) : Usually listed as an ingredient containing a neutralising compound, i.e. as Cocamide DEA or Lauramide DEA, repeated skin applications of DEA-based detergents are known to form cancer causing nitrates

7) Avoid Hair Colouring, Rinses, and Dyes. Look on the pack of the ingredient label and check for FD & C Colours: Many individuals with afro hair experience scalp irritation due to these. If you have an irritated scalp, your hair will not grow long or remain healthy.

8) Avoid Products with Chemical Preservatives: Nearly all brands of Black and Ethnic Skin and hair care products contain hair and health harmful toxins, especially parabens that are used to extend products’ shelf lives. While these companies make huge profits, it is at the expense of your hair and health being exposed to cancer causing elements, such as formaldehyde or formaldehyde-donors which can irritate the respiratory system, cause skin reactions and trigger heart palpitations.

9) Abandon your typical beauty supply store. Curly or ethnic hair needs natural hair care products because the sulphates, chemicals, alcohols, and silicones in 99% of hair care products have a moisture stripping effect. Ethnic hair needs moisture to grow, become strong, and stay manageable. Without moisture your hair will become dry and damaged. Try Beauty 4 Ashes GodHead ( http://www.discoverb4a.com/ a great all natural) or Tigi BedHead (Tigi Bed Head Superstar Sulfate Free Shampoo 250ml a quality synthetic shampoo). Please note, I have never used these products but they have been recommended by other natural sisters.

10) Try to purchase all natural hair care products tailored for your hair type. Visit your local health foods store or find great hair care product for purchase online. The hair care industry is finally seeing the light and making hair care products that truly work for ethnic hair. Beauty 4 Ashes Christian Health & Beauty, a beauty conglomerate, acclaimed internationally, makes 100% natural ethnic hair care products for general hair health and hair growth (www.discoverb4a.com). Their products have received great ratings in the US as well.

So, there you have it, the list of products to steer clear of but in saying all of that my key advice would be to listen to your hair. If you try something that contains one or more of the above (which i have), don’t fret. If your hair enjoys it then it may not be so bad after all but at least you’re enlightened as to what exactly it is.

Peace, Love and Nappyness dudes!

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Is Natural hair healthy hair?

2010-03-17T06:58:00.004Z

Before I start spewing some facts about things that can cause damage to hair I just need to share something with you all. Anyone that is a friend of mine on facebook may have seen the quote below this week.

‘Youth is wasted on the young’ Oscar Wilde

The thought process behind the quote is simple. I went home to my mums last weekend to do my laundry (don’t judge me!) and my little sister was running around talking to her friend on loudspeaker, whilst practising some dance routine. Greeting her as I stepped into the house I noticed that her hair was very straight and in two ponytails but didn’t think too much of it. Later on Saturday evening it cross my mind and I called my mum (ready for a showdown) to ask if she had relaxed my twelve year old sisters hair. When she told me that my sister had taken it upon herself to textures her own hair, I was distraught, I felt physical pain, I felt betrayed because everyone in my household is natural and I have tried my best to pass on my knowledge so she too can love her beautiful, natural hair. Since then I’ve wondered why she didn’t do as I did and look at my brother’s healthy, 11 inch afro and think that she could have the same. Why did she ruin what was naturally given to her? I have since discussed the situation among friends and come to the conclusion that children will be children and will ultimately make their own mistakes. It just hurts to know that she doesn’t quite realise what she had in the first place L.

Okay, enough about me, let me address some issues about natural hair. How many of you assume that because one may not have any chemicals in their hair that hair is healthy? Well, if that is what you think, you are wrong.

Porosity is a form of damage caused by creating more pores in the hairs structure through breaks and cracks. It can be caused by many reasons and not even you naturals can escape it so pay attention. Here are just a few causes of porosity:

Shampooing, towel drying and combing

These three are some of the most common reasons for cuticle damage and are called ‘mechanical damage’. It occurs when scrubbing the hair with shampoo, rubbing wet hair with a towel and combing wet hair to remove tangles. The more aggressive you are, the more susceptible your hair will be to damage. Because of this, I always ensure that I wash my hair with a non-abrasive substance such as conditioner and even then, I only wash my scalp, the conditioner/shampoo should be allowed to run down the hair shaft and take any grime with it, you should not have to tug on your wet hair. I also ensure that I pat my hair dry if I use a towel or I use a softer material like an old T-shirt and I never comb my hair when it is soaking wet, I will only tackle it when it has air dried for a while and is damp.

Light

UV light/ sunlight also damages the cuticle with a study from the Journal of Cosmetic science showing that damage starts after 200 hours of exposure which is a fairly long time. So when you are off on those fabulous beach holidays try and take a hat and a conditioner with sun protection to prevent your hair from frying whilst you’re trying to catch some colour.

Chemical Treatment (relaxing, bleaching etc)

All of these processes are an open invitation to porosity on a grand scale. Cuticle lifting, cracks, holes and entire sections of the hair structure missing are common with these types of treatments hence the thinning of the hair over time.

Environmental conditions

As we all know, the British temperature sits a below 10 degrees about 70% of the year and the cold air and wind has serious effects on your hair. Even though I end up looking like a 15 year old, I try to keep my hair in protective styles for most of the winter and have done well so far this winter. I generally only undo my hair to wash it or if I’m making an effort to dazzle on the dance floor! Other than that my hair stays tucked away and moisturised until the sun comes out.

Long Hair

Those blessed with longer lengths often take their tresses for granted but remember, the longer the hair, the older the hair, which means that it is more likely to become damaged due to the fore mentioned elements. Don’t get lazy, hold onto that drive you had when you were trying to get your hair to reach your belly button (yes that is my aim) and show your hair some love. Be sure to deep condition with different products so your hair can get the many benefits. I definitely recommend henna which is a strengthening protein treatment and I am looking forward to trying honey, yoghurt, mayonnaise and some other homemade mixes when I have the time and energy!

HENNA WAX ORIGINAL

HAIR CONDITIONER 400GM

NATURAL CLASSIC

Sad times, I am at my word limit already…be sure to get at me next week when I’ll be taking moisture to new levels.

Peace, love and Nappyness

Calamity Jane #9 - Ninth Circle of hell (Treason)

2010-03-14T21:52:00.001Z

As abruptly as it all began, it ended. ……………..

Sadly not as Hollywood would have intended; with a me walking away, pride in hand, wearing an Armani suit with shoulder pads, four inch Manolo’s, my (fake) hair swishing in the wind (think Working Girl circa 1980s), having eventually tired of the perilous bi-weekly trips to the salon, where I was physically and emotionally endangered.

No... That kind of ending belongs in fairy tales, or the modern day equivalent – Fake DVDs sold by the China man on Brixton Hill... Ironically the catastrophe that was my hairdressing experience was cut short not because I finally saw sense and walked away, but rather, because without warning Keesha, packed up shop and walked away. In her traditional style, she did so without a second thought for the very people one would assume she would value – her clients!

Subsumed by the torrent of abuse I’d received from friends and family for my addiction fuelled persistent trips back to Keesha. Made worse by the indoctrination of my younger susceptible sister (I got her hooked and like crack it consumed her), I was ill prepared for the act of treason (or sadistic irony) that was to befall me.

It all happened when........

With no appointment (I had quickly realised appointments were a trite semblance of order that simply did not exist in the mechanics of this salon) I took myself one Saturday morning to Peckham for a steam and a shape up. Prepared as I was for the inevitable wait with book in arm, iPod in ear, packed lunch in bag, I wasn’t surprised to find the shutters down. I trotted along to God Bless Caribbean restaurant next door to the woman, whose arse was literally the size of a small country (I’m all for back-off but DAMN!) and requested the key to let myself in......

‘Gone you say, gone where?’... ‘I don’t know darling’ was her unconvincing response. In a panic I tried all four of Keesha’s numbers only to find the lines completely dead or diverting to voicemail. With all those numbers, it baffled me that she was so often in contactable. Hmmmm immigration? I pondered.

So, just like that with a simple exchange of stifling pleasantries, I learnt that Keesha had moved on and I was back to square one with mashed up hair, seeking a slamming cheap salon.

You see for all the waiting, the occasional burns, the stolen merchandise, the violence, bordering on child abuse, the salon remained my own private sanctuary. A place where crudeness was the order of the day and time had no common place. It provided me with countless tales that have enriched many a dinner party, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Thank you for reading my jaunt through the inferno, which although not the requiem of spirituality Dante would have intended it be, turned out to be an entertaining exploration of the soul of the south (London that is).

For now I bid you adieu.

Blackhairstudio would like to thank Calamity Jane for her fabulous and hilarious contribution to our blog, your Nine Circles of Hell have been nine moments of pleasure for us. We hope you will be back soon!

DQ.

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Learning how to maintain your naps

2010-03-10T07:44:00.002Z

How many of you remember lifting your shoulders to your ears and wincing in pain as your mother dragged a comb through your tightly coiled hair? Or loving that you get to undo your braids but hating when wash day came around? My first memories of a young girl with natural hair were never associated with positivity, just pain and unhappiness. As soon as my plaits were let loose I used to jump around and shake my head like the women on the television advertising hair products but I dare anyone to try and hold me down to get it washed...It was horrible and I swear my mum was trying to drown me.
It is easy to reflect and laugh at the whole experience but I’m pretty certain that the actions of our parents/hairdressers is what allows those with thick curly/coily hair believe that are hair is unruly, unmanageable and bad. It makes us believe that this is the type of hair that needs to be tamed when the truth is; it was just never cared for properly. So, I thought that I would scrape the surface this week and discuss a few key factors that will ensure healthy, long (yes long!), afro hair.

No, dirt does not grow your hair lol

Growing up I was often told that I shouldn’t wash my hair too often as it was bad for your hair and would make your hair break. Seriously, this was the belief and I know people that only washed their hair every six months because apparently this was fact. What nonsense! The truth is that washing your hair often and using the right products can have a really positive effect on afro hair. Water is one of the few substances that can actually penetrate the hairs cuticle and acts as a moisturiser, hence why your hair always feels soft when wet. A problem only occurs when the hair is not fully cared for following a wash and moisture is not replenished. I will discuss the different moisturising products and methods in another blog.

Use the right equipment

I’m sure that most of you realise that to avoid breakage you should use a wide toothed comb to detangle hair when wet or damp but your comb should be seamless. Check the inside and edges of your comb and the line that goes down each tooth for bad manufacturing which can mean that the seams overlap and snag the hair during combing. Bone combs are typically made of resin and are seamless, wooden combs spread the scalps natural oil throughout the hair and tortoise combs glide through hair. Check out Sally’s beauty supply shop to find ‘tenderheaded accessories’ or ‘honeyfig’ which supply a seamless comb range.
If you prefer brushes, try the trusty denman brush or if you feel like splurging the mason pearson combs and brushes although it does nothing but give me split ends.

Combing your curlies

Stop combing your hair so much! Excessive grooming can cause split ends. When I tell people that I very rarely comb my hair they look surprised but all l I need is my fingers. I spritz my hair with some water and coconut oil or an everyday conditioner (usually Pantene/ Aussie moist) and finger comb or use my metal rat tail comb for straight partings when I’m plaiting it. I would not even attempt to rake a comb through my dry hair, the more tightly curled your hair is the more gentle you need to be, so I gently comb through my hair from tip to root on wash day and then leave it alone. If I need to manipulate it into a style then a little conditioner and some braids or twists generally does the trick.
Detangling knotted hair
It’s a good idea to detangle your hair before washing it. Once hair is wet, the cuticles can lift, causing hair to snarl even further.

1. First, identify the tangle and separate it from the rest of your hair with your fingers.
2. Start at the bottom of the tangle and use the detangling comb to gently start picking through the snarl.
3. Work your way up the tangle until you’re able to comb through it without tugging. This may take a lot of patience and you may need to turn the detangling comb sideways and use a single tooth on the end of the comb to work through a very tight snarl.
4. To prevent tangles in the future, be sure to comb out your wet hair after shampooing, conditioning and applying a leave-in conditioner. (Never, ever brush wet hair – hair is very fragile when it’s wet and a brush could stretch the fiber, causing it to snap).
That’s all for now folks but next week I will be talking more about hair processes that work.

KN

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Can nappy really mean happy?

2010-03-03T10:49:00.005Z

Hey Chipolatas,

Thanks for the amazing response to last week’s blog. It’s a good thing you can all appreciate a bit of honesty, because honestly, a bit of honesty’s always honestly appreciated!

So, I was thinking about what to write about next; could you ingest wise words, digest balanced advice and have a giggle… while patting your head and rubbing your belly?
Seriously, since I really can’t do any of that I thought it best stick to what I know.
Pondering on what part of this epic journey I should blog about, I figured how else to start but with natural perceptions. The things people think about you and don’t say. The things people assume because you wear your hair a certain way. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that naturalistas are the only people that come across such judgemental attitudes but having had relaxed hair for 10 years, the reactions from various people are often quite telling.
I’m sure every natural has heard “your hair is so nice but I couldn’t do that, my hair is too nappy.”…Hello, we have the same kind of hair!

Now, the thing that is sad but oh so true is that the bad reactions I get are from black people. People of my own race, those that have similar hair and skin to mine, those that should understand the struggle to stay natural in a Eurocentric society that is far removed from our natural selves. You’d think they’d understand…but do they? Do they ever? Now, I will talk about the reactions from men another time, another post but for now, let me draw your focus to black women.

So, what is it about a natural hair that get’s black women emotional? From the looks I get from some, I would assume it’s either the sheer disdain for what lies under their own weaves, relaxers or braids or perhaps in actual fact they honestly believe that they are somehow above you and well out of your league because they have straight hair. And it’s true, I should know. I used to be that girl sniggering with my friend because some girl’s hair didn’t blow in the wind. But when I think about it, I was actually a bit jealous, we all were. The girls that donned their natural hair generally had loads of it, thick hair that was not easily tamed. We all wanted that hair and needed the confidence to just be.
That was way back when but as an adult I encounter the same attitudes. The need to change what is naturally given to us. It does make me wonder about the psyche of some people? If you dislike your hair so much that you would pay someone to burn it into submission, then what else would you do to change? Where does it end? Now, do not get me wrong, I am all for change be it physical or mental but having this mass of protein on my head has made me focus on my inner being, understand my culture and it has even made me question the kind of person I am. Because I am not the person that questions the beauty of the darkest skin, the fullest lips and the widest nose. I can appreciate the shortest, curliest of hair that reaches for the sun just as much as I can love caramel skin and straight hair that hangs long.

So, to the question, can nappy really mean happy I say YES, because nappy is real and only through being natural have I learnt to truly understand my culture and gain a sense of self that was never apparent before.
Only through being nappy (and I mean this in a positive way) have I learnt the real implications of the things I put in my body and on my skin. I have a better understanding of the food that the government so readily provides and the chemicals that pollute them but let’s no go to deep this week. I’m simply happy being nappy because nappy is a better me.

KN

Calamity Jane #8 - Eighth Circle of hell (Fraud)

2010-03-01T06:41:00.004Z

Is it possible to tell something about a person by their hair?

Relax ladies, I'm not igniting the natural hair (black power) or weavalicious (self loathing) stereotypes. As a woman as comfortable in an afro weave as I am short boyish natural hair, I really don’t have much of an opinion where that’s concerned. Today I analyse men and specially the ever growing battalion of (as I call them) ‘Jon B brothers’..

I once went on a date with a man who cited his barber on more occasions than he did his friends and family combined. I’m a big fan of Keesha, as this blog is testimonial to, but I don’t bring my stories of sorrow to bear at the dinner table with a man I barely know – I’ll save that for when we’re married. My date, by contrast saw his barber (who he claimed he could never live too far away from – as though that’s something to be proud of) as a of stamp of credibility; A testament to his ‘being down with it’ (whatever ‘it’ may be). I should have guessed from the sharp shaped hair line, this guy was clearly a regular at the barbershop (think Ice Cube and co), where I imagined him cracking inappropriate jokes , speaking in a dubious accent (certainly not in keeping with his upbringing in Cornwall) and using plural when citing his experiences, presuming they were the same experiences of the black men cutting his hair. He was a typical Jon B brother..

The Jon B brother almost exclusively dates black women,preferably with a natural hair cut, lots of bangles, rocking the mother Africa, salt of the earth look. Think Erykah Badu, before she went nuts for the BIG wig.

The books he recommends are black. Not just written by black authors about universal themes of society, love, relationships, and loss. Books the Jon B brother recommends are almost always about the black struggle. The plight of a first generation immigrant in a white mans land (Sam Seldon the Lonely Londoners is a casing point and a recommendation by a dear Jon B friend of mine) or slavery, or apartheid.

His paintings are black. A collection of hip hop inspired murals and portraits of some of the most obscure jazz musicians of the twentieth century. Indeed he makes it his mission to educate you about jazz.

He serves a roast dinner by candlelight with paintings of John Coltrane adorned on the wall, books by Franz Fanon stacked overtly in the book case (spine and therefore author name and title facing outward) and Malian diva, Oumou Sangare’s dulcet tones undulating from his speakers. His CD collection is the epitome of world music, with West African classic hi life one would expect only the most ardent of African to own. Intentional or not, the books, the music, the conversation all seem to embolden his pride and contrived sense of worldliness and tolerance.

The Jon B brother is front row at the London jazz festival, the African festival at the Barbican, the Malcolm X book reading at the Southbank and the conscious hip hop concert at Brixton Academy (think Talib Kweli and Moss Def rather than 50 Cent and P.Diddy) – All this in between appointments at the barber.

Is it a front? A fraud? A part of the bravado? I can’t help wonder, for all the entertainment the Jon B’s of the world have given me over the years, if you scratch beneath the well tarnished (well versed) veneer you’re bound to find Conservative (with a big ‘C’) suburban, middle England staring straight back at you.

Ps. A shout out to Dionne and Claire who had me in stitches on the bus as we chatted about the Jon B brothers that have stumbled across our paths. We deduced that seeing as Jon B may only resonate with a woman of a certain age, perhaps Robin Thicke (his protégé) may be a better analogy for the young ones!

In Pursuit of Nappyness… Introducing Kinky Nikz 2.0

2010-02-23T21:35:00.002Z

Hi Bloggesphere,

I heard about this website a few weeks ago and thought it was a great idea. What a great opportunity to showcase my fabulous writing skills (J) and say a lot about… well, stuff! But then I was actually given the opportunity to write my first blog and I was stumped; what was I going to say? What would I call myself? I mean, would anyone give a flying Kcuf? Answer: probably not. But hey, does it really matter? I decided to approach the blog like most other things in my life, head on, without fear and with positive karma or as my boyfriend say’s, ‘enter any action with boldness!’.

So, here goes. I thought it only right to begin with letting you know who I am and what gives me the right to evade your mind space.

I am the kind of person who likes change…often. So when I was thinking about a new hairstyle for probably the third time in 2008, my colleague suggested I grow an afro so they can hide things in it. You may well laugh but, to be honest, it wasn’t a bad idea (the growing part). So I spoke to the very few natural haired ladies that I know to help make my decision. I mean, I have only dealt with short relaxed her for my whole adult life, what was I about to do with a ‘fro?

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I cut my hair for fun on the worst days but this time it was different. This time I would let it grow back naturally.

Now, when you think about it, this should have no bearing on my decision. The aim is to grow my hair naturally (okay, I know you got that much), the way God intended it to come out of the follicles on my epidermis but yet I had to research and ask questions about what to expect. These days that just doesn’t sit right with me, why is this information not already apparent? I digress…after much deliberation and in an ‘I AM my own woman’ moment after an argument with my boyfriend, I sat in a barbers chair in Willesden and told him to shave my head, shave it clean.

I remember walking out of the barber smiling hard at this new liberation, I was bald, bold and free. If I had a convertible SLK I would have driven off into the sunset down the M1. Instead, I rubbed my head and jumped on the 266 back home to Harlesden.

Okay, so I have now cut my hair, of course there has to be a collation of thoughts and opinions and a general consensus on the new ‘do’. Everyone loved it, except my mum who gave me a nonchalant “when are you going to leave your head alone” (she is now very bored of my spur of the moment style changes!). There was just one more tiny thing, I was yet to see the man in my life and thought that turning up at his upcoming club night looking like earth mother was the ONLY thing to do. Let’s just say he approved. J

So anyway, to cut a long story short, let’s fast forward 1 year and 9 months and I love my fro, it’s 6 inches, it’s fierce, it’s me. I care for it like I would my first born child, we‘ve been through learning, misguidance, pain, disappointment, love and hate. My hair has taken me on a journey, it has dictated my lifestyle, it has made me feel unattractive and yet made me beam with pride.

Now, I’m no Oprah, and i will not be handing out a free car for tuning in next week but I will be sharing what I have learnt on my pilgrimage to nappturality. The products that scientifically work for black hair and ones that worked/ work for me, hair care regimes and all things natural. Please feel free to post any questions that you may have in the future and happy reading!!!

Kinky Nikz

Calamity Jane #7 - Seventh Circle of hell (Violence)

2010-02-21T21:12:00.003Z

Sunday 10^th January at a bar in Catford one quintessentially black London ‘youf’ (baggy jeans riding the crack of his buttocks, an oversized jumper, body warmer and some rather funky and expensive looking trainers) stood before me to recite a poem he had written about his mother. His eloquence and delivery were polished, the substance of his words powerful. The young Bard spoke of the perpetual beatings he received (only black’s open a poem about love of their mothers with stories of beatings - as though the two are inextricable linked. Anyhow it inspired laughs and emphatic nods from everyone in the room), the humiliation the beatings invoked, the adoration and respect it derived, the love and protection that grew and finally the man it inspired him to become. His strength, his humanity, his passion, his life choices were all inspired by his mother (who seemingly ruled with an iron fist).

There is a new guard of child rearing theory, often espoused by the well educated, well paid, Guardian reading liberals (none of whom reside in Catford). The sorts of people whose children have names like Hermoine or Tabitha (and they have the cheek to look down on Shaniqua, Laquisha or Ray Ray). Their children refer to them by their first names and discipline at home and in public is supplanted by ‘healthy debate’ - recall the looks which could summon death that your mother would give you if you ever showed her up in public - as blacks we recognise the significance of public displays of bad behaviour.

It isn’t that black children are loved any less by their parents; they just have a different way of delivering the same message. It all boils down to vernacular. For example in an effort to encourage her daughter to lose some weight a middle class English woman may say to her daughter ‘darling, lets start going for walkies in the Heath together, we could both do with the exercise. We haven’t ridden Jezebel (the black stallion) in some time, why don’t we pop to the stables for ride this weekend? Remind me to send Bee (the maid) to the organic shop to pick up some bean sprouts for dinner’. Over the same topic Keesha for example would simply say (as I have witnessed with my own eyes) ‘Fat giaarl stop eating that crap. That’s why you cian’t lose weight!’ Behind the hardened veneer of Keesha shouting fat giarlll, I knew there was love.

This is not the forum to debate child rearing techniques, but as I ponder my own childhood, the tales of discipline are embedded in my psyche… Amongst the black community, tales of discipline have bonded and united generations of people, who, although brought up all over the country were all reared in the same way. Go to any black comedy night, party, outdooring (naming ceremony) or gathering and the tales of childhood discipline (brutality tailored to audience) will be told.

God Bless hair salon is no exception. I had become accustomed to a degree of shouting at the badly behaved children when called for, but the ferocity of it sometimes knocked me off guard. I knew what was coming when I’d hear Keesha calmly tell the kids to stop running, quietly but firmly under her breath (I was always dumbfounded that the kids didn’t read the signs) giving them a chance to redeem themselves with her warnings. They didn’t, they carried on obliviously; Slamming into customers, who were already perplexed by their own gaggle of bored, cooped up children, who’d spent their Saturday following them round the market looking for the cheapest yam, ripest plantain (accepting nothing less that 5 for a pound) and freshest chicken and were now about to face the abyss that is the salon. I didn’t blame them for wanting to play. I just wished it were outside and away from me. Then BAMN! before I could blink Keesha’s turned and with one hand wrestled the screaming kids down to the ground (two at once) whilst giving the lucky third who got away the ‘so help me God if I wasn’t carrying this hot comb, you’d be in my hands right now’ look.

As the stiff upper lip British resolve hadn’t yet penetrated the borders of Peckham, I knew her emotions from her recent outburst would come to bear on my head. Those were the moments I prayed to God (staring down at me from the lone crucifix on the wall next to the poster of the scantily dressed woman cupping her breasts advertising the month of January) I wasn’t next in line for Keesha chair. Inevitably I always was...

Calamity Jane #6 - Sixth Circle of Hell (Sacrilege)

2010-02-14T22:10:00.002Z

Sometime around 1988 Public Enemy roared ‘Don’t believe the hype’ down the microphone amidst police sirens, fierce looking dogs, burnt out cars, a boy on a bike with one side of his t-shirt draped loosely over one shoulder with his hair uncombed under an enlarged baseball cap, and the usual rigmarole that marks a hip hop video!

How true Public Enemy’s words ring as I recall the stories my friends (almost smug in their delivery), have told me of their wonderfully punctual hairdressers, who called if they were running late, offered them tea or coffee when they arrived, attended to them and only them throughout the duration of their appointment and advised them how to look after their hair and the best products to use in between visits to the salon. Ha!!! Well I didn’t believe them then and I don’t believe them now. I know our fate and no amount of self deception can lull me in to a false sense of security.

One such perpetrator of this delusional ‘delightful hairdresser’ syndrome as I call it, was my best buddy, Yinka, whose soul aim in life was to condemn my choice in hairdresser; despite the fact that she always praised my hair, but believed the sacrifice in attaining the style was simply too great. In Yinka’s defence, she was always the one I called in floods of tears, in a rage, on the verge of murder and the all the other aggressive emotions, Keesha had managed to bring out in me. So she had a slightly compromised view of her.

Now I am not one to revel in the misfortunes of others, but I recall a tale or two about Yinka’s misfortunes at hairdressers, that make my tales pale in to insignificance. Of course these had been consigned to the dustbin of history (as far as Yinka is concerned) but for today I have reclaimed them to disprove the ‘delightful hairdresser’ syndrome once and forever.

Up at the crack of dawn, (I’m spotting a theme here of us waking up earlier than the light, just to make it to the salon – only to wait some more) Yinka makes her way to Camberwell for ‘appointment’ at the hair salon. At £25 for a weave it’s more of a conveyor belt than a salon. Camberwell is a typical cosmopolitan south London suburb yet to experience regeneration. Pockets have been gentrified, usually where the white people live, but the high street where the black folks dwell, resembles any sprawling African market. Therefore seeing Yinka and her kin folk, sat queuing from 8am outside a hair salon which is yet to open (on a stool she has brought from home), on the sidewalk of the busy high street was as common a sight as plantain in Peckham.

Women came prepared, some having brought porridge, flasks of hot tea, carnation milk, books and magazines for entertainment (the black girl scouts). Whilst others (the inexperienced first timers) stood shivering, mouths parched, afraid to run to the shop across the road for fear of losing their spot in the queue. No bond of female solidarity was going to make a sister hold another sisters place in the line. In this pre dawn battle of the will, being prepared counts, as it’s every woman for herself. The doors finally opened and the bargain basement weave shop is ready for business. With only three girls on the early shift, it meant at least another 1.5 hours wait before Yinka is finally seen; at least she’s inside, having been rescued from her stool on the street corner.

On another occasion in another hair salon across town in New Cross, where the pre-dawn queuing on a stool was a thing of the past and the service was professional (other than the lecherous husband of the salon owner who thought customer service meant inviting Yinka on a date when his wife was out of sight). The delusional ‘delightful hairdresser syndrome’ was as close to reality as Yinka had imagined. Until a bi-weekly appointment went horribly wrong and brought the delightful hairdresser dream crashing down…

Having had the same conservative hair style for many years, which suited but didn’t inspire her, Yinka decided to embrace a new look. After very specifically explaining her vision to her hairdresser, using magazine cut outs as a visual guide, Yinka was aghast to find her hairdresser proceeded to cut her hair into a style SHE saw fit and ‘hacked it bald’ (to use her words exactly). In reality it was more of a bob, so high at the back it resembled T-Boz’s (TLC) circa 1990’s cut, which back when Yinka was 12 years old was all the rage, but a bit of an anomaly in the city of London age 28 in the late noughties.

A year of perpetual hair braiding followed, until the damage was suitably repaired!

Ladies no more lies. No more pretending to one another. Rich or poor; high end salon in Knightsbridge or back street shanty in Peckham, lets embrace the inevitable humiliation, anger, rage together – why oh why do these hairdressers do this to us?.

Calamity Jane #5 - Fifth Circle of Hell (Wrath and Sloth)

2010-02-07T21:46:00.002Z

There are certain universal truths. One of which is that time waits for no (wo)man. It’s a fundamental fact of life which compounds our insignificance in the macrocosm that is the universe. Or so I thought…

Recall the dread that fills you on a Saturday (approximately once every four to six weeks) when it’s time to retouch, re-sew or re-whatever is necessary for our hair. You’ve cleared your diary, organised your social events to start as late in the evening as possible (or indeed postponed them for a week as there is every possibility you will return later that evening exactly as you left – only a little more jaded by life’s cruelties) and you’ve had a hearty breakfast as goodness knows when you’ll eat again. The painful thing as you drive (or worse, sit on the bus, tube, train or tram) in the dark (the sun not having yet risen) is knowing the procedure you are about to endure shouldn’t take long, although it inevitably does.

One particular occasion filled me with a wrath I have rarely experienced in my young and relatively passive life. I arrived as scheduled one Saturday morning, having phoned Keesha on numerous occasions the night before to confirm the time of my ‘appointment’. I had been particularly anxious (which Keesha must have sensed from my wails and cries down the phone) as I had a function to attend in the evening and my hair was beyond any state of repair, and wearing a hat would have been inappropriate.

I parked up in the back streets of Peckham, cautious that not even my bumper touched a yellow line as I’ve paid £50 to Southwark council on more occasions than I cared to remember (making my hair doubly expensive). I run like the wind to the salon only to find the shutters down and nobody in sight.

After hanging on the corner looking like a hooker (in the traditional attire of south London prostitute of tracksuit and trainers – very glamorous!) I go next door to God Bless Caribbean restaurant and ask for Keesha. After rambling something inaudible making no attempt at eye contact (with the restaurant being the base for the notorious Peckham Boys gang, there is no wonder she is accustomed to averting her gaze) I'm handed the keys to the salon. It seems Keesha had called her but not bothered letting me know she’d be late and I begrudgingly make my way next door watching time disappear before my very eyes.

I lift the shutters; open the doors let myself in and scream in fury. An hour passes and after turning on the radio (automatically tuned into Vibes FM) Mavado’s ‘So Special’ blaring out of the speakers, I take to the floor, headscarf flailing (yes I wore it in public), and dance the running man, with a hint of MC Hammer unashamedly for the world to see. I introduce a strange Beyonce-esq circular motion of the arms around my head, which does me no favours with my poor balance and I stumble back on to the sofa. Still no sign of Keesha and I’ve bored of calling her only for her to say “I’m round the corner” – What corner of London is a hour and a half away from Peckham? After a nap, I find a Clementine buried at the bottom of my bag and hope the sustenance will distract me from my ever growing rage. I consider going elsewhere but being 11.30am, I’d only end up queuing for an eternity for some hairdresser I don’t know or trust who will inevitably burn me, even more than my body has been conditioned to take.

Finally Keesha arrives with four loud children in toe. Expecting a profuse apology I perk up (having been asleep on the sofa), stone faced and rigid from the uncomfortable couch. ‘What is that smell?’ she almost spits at me. ‘Have you been eating oranges in ere? I hate the smell of orange, it makes me sick’. And with that she goes about settling the children and preparing her breakfast. Not one word uttered in apology for being over two hours late. I swore from that day on I would never return...

Of course four weeks passed, I was too lazy to go in search of someone new and so the cycle of my life continued.

Do not confuse what you have just read with something as trite as Black People Time. BPT doesn’t describe the magnitude of Keesha’s disregard for punctuality. She takes lateness and stamps out the considerate, leaving a hollow feeling where courtesy used to live!

Calamity Jane #4 - Fourth Circle of Hell (Greed)

2010-01-31T17:21:00.002Z

As an African, my fancy dress attempts at school (a fetish we blacks neither dare nor care to understand) were never up to par and the concept of it still leaves me mystified. As my friends exerted energy (their mothers up, all night sewing and stitching and sweating until the dawn) creating a teenage mutant ninja turtle outfit from scratch; my mother would simply blot some black powder on my face, draw dots with her eye liner, and with the rest of my body adorned in my usual get up, send me off to school as Anansi, the folk character (spider) only blacks had heard of. And there were to total of four of us in my school. Two of whom were related to me.

Non school uniform day, by comparison, was the social event of my year. Weeks were spent planning meticulously, discounting every outfit in my wardrobe and justifying to my mother the benefit of a trip to view the latest collection at Tammy Girl. The hair, (remembering it is pre relaxer as I wasn’t old enough for the chemicals), raw and rock hard. Being surrounded by little girls with spindly legs (even as a child I had strong thighs, or athletic as my sports coach would refer to my physique) and long flowing blond locks that whispered menacingly in the wind, I knew I had to impress….

The braids were removed, washed, blow dried (breaking the forks of more than one comb as it fought its way through my wild roots to freedom) and combed ‘down’ to my delight. Move over Shingai (Noisettes), I was rocking my hard core fro, loud and proud, way back in the day! There was the obvious ‘can I touch it?’, but I was impervious to any mocking about the height as opposed to length of my hair. My greed for the bigness outweighed my childish desire to blend in with my (melanin deprived) peers.

My big hair wasn’t limited to my childish fro of yesteryear, but spawned a desire (even if it meant a return to the ‘can I touch it’?) for the big, the bad and the most brazen hair I could muster. The bigger the better, except of course when referring to the size of my thighs, arms or butt…

The only problem with my desire for big hair is that my head is relatively small by most standards. Imagine the wig Erykah Badu is rocking on her new album and you have some concept of the scale of my hair.

I was greedy for more, and what started off as a modest afro, spawned into a manifestation of my rejection of the straight, glossy, relaxed, homogenous hair of the masses. Keesha happily slapped on the hair (she’s like that with weave – there’s no holding back), using pack after pack, weaving and gluing to produce the lolly pop effect. Like all things taken to excess at some point you can’t take anymore. I bored of the look (having revolutionised hair care, black women are in the enviable position of being able to radically change their hair from one look to another) and constructed a new image, premised on natural and boyishly short hair, to which Keesha simply said...NO!

It was then that the natural hair prejudice was revealed. You see it was acceptable for me to sew a mass of hair on to my head, but to cut it off to its natural state and this woman who once veered away from enforcing her opinion about my hair choices, was quick to speak with authority and certainty. She felt it necessary to save me from myself and after so bullishly endeavouring on this plight, like a child in a corner (in God Bless of all places) I backed down, afraid of the result that would ensue (Keesha had the scissors and I was scared of what she’d do) and haplessly resigned myself to a fate of wigs and weaves.

CJ.

Calamity Jane #3 - Third circle of hell (Gluttony)

2010-01-24T20:01:00.003Z

I am in pain as the relaxer takes its toll on my scalp. Precious sees me whimper and sprays oil sheen on my tender scalp, which apparently alleviates all head pain as well as bringing shine to dull hair :-|
I stare bemused, tearful, frustrated with her unwillingness to relive me of my pain. She is in on the ‘conspiracy’. Indeed it is people like Precious (planted strategically in salons up and down the country) who safeguard this ancient ‘conspiracy’, tasked with passing it on from generation to generation.

A memory (many of you will share) was preparing for school on Sunday evening; sitting stone faced, body rigid, fists clenched, in between my mother’s thighs (strong and firm) pinning me down as she pulled, parted and plaited the bushy, unrelaxed, raw, as God ordained it, hair. Dad avoided eye contact; I often screamed and occasionally (pride permitting) cried, my sister sniggered, as mum did what was necessary to tame the wild beast…. I can smell the hair pomade now. I always marvelled (that’s not true - I was enraged with jealousy) at how effortlessly my mum went to work on my sisters hair. Soft and silky, mum whizzed through it without even the faintest yelp.

Then my day finally came (much older than the other girls, who were doing it from as young as seven or eight, along with wearing stilettos and red lipstick – need I say more?), and I went to the salon to tame the beast forever. Now this is Milton Keynes in the 1990s (when my dad would say hello to every black person who passed us in town because he knew them) and every black woman (irrespective of age) went to the same salon, where the stylist knew only one style – the bob, but I wasn’t upset; the individual in me was yet to be born (like most teenagers I was happy to be a clone).

My coarse hair required additional coaxing and it seemed for all eternity my scalp was to bear the brunt of this. I recall my mum laughing with one of my aunties as I complained about the discomfort, who chimed in agreement, that ‘in order for a woman to achieve beauty, first there must be pain’. BANG! There it was… the ‘conspiracy’ that has come to plague my existence. It was one of the first lessons of life I recall my mother teaching me, and for her unreserved pearls of wisdom I am grateful. In some subtle guise we were all taught the same lesson which I have no doubt will without conscience be passed on to our daughters and their daughters after them.

As an adult I see the tell tell signs…Or I it tale tale?.. Hmmm, I’m never sure when it comes to traditional British sayings whether I’ve got it right, or I’m reciting the ‘Africanisation’ of the phrase, that I’ve picked up from my parents (it’s the plight of the second generation immigrant)....

Anyway back to the ‘signs’… We’ve all seen the girl who took the ‘conspiracy’ too far and let the relaxer do some serious damage to more than just their hair, all for the sake of a misguided sense of beauty. You can spot them on the tube, on the bus, in their cars, sunglasses adorned Jackie O style, scarves wrapped surreptitiously around their necks, (even in the summer) because they are ashamed….

Ashamed of the ghastly bright pink mark of raw exposed flesh (as a result of over zealous use of the relaxer cream – the sign of a BAD hair dresser), often on the earlobe, forehead, back of neck and cheek (yes that’s possible and I’m not ashamed to say it was me). They are the victims of the songs sung by our mothers and their mothers before them; passed down to the droves of successful, intelligent modern women walking the streets of Anfield, Moss Side, Brixton and Peckham. The song that says beauty comes to all those willing to suffer.

We at blackhairstudio would like to take this opportunity to continue send our love and prayers to those who have been affected by the crisis in Haiti. Please show your support by donating to the following http://www.dec.org.uk/donate_now/

Thank you!

Calamity Jane #2 - Second Circle of Hell (Lust)

2010-01-19T22:35:00.007Z

I would not say I am particularly prudish, nor am I outlandish and flagrant about my sexual conquests, but in the house of God Bless anything goes and is for all to hear; well as much as one can hear patois in all its free flowing glory. Sadly, my subtle Ghanaian/Milton Keynes/London range does not extend to the patois dialect and I am left smiling and nodding emphatically attempting to convey understanding whilst eagerly hoping to avoid being drawn into conversation.

For all my English cynicism (a colonial heritage passed down from generation to generation) it’s strangely liberating being surrounded by people who are so sexually uninhibited and see nothing demeaning about expressing their lust and its varied manifestations free from fear of reprisal. Indeed I think they derived a sordid pleasure in recounting their tales in as public a forum as the salon offered.

My favourite tale and believe me there are many to chose from, followed the arrival of the ‘gang’ and their copious children one particular Saturday afternoon. There was:

The woman who sells the plastic jewellery, which is often pretty from a distance but up close each rhinestone has an unintentional mist and the string holding the beads together is weathered and unable to stand the duration of an evening sat in a restaurant let alone raving.

The woman who supplies stolen clothesto every salon within the south east London corridor. Occasionally the tags are ripped out, but it is clear as day that they descend from the aisles of Topshop, River Island or whichever high street store she’s just jacked.

The man selling food (£5 for a portion of rice and jerk chicken; curry goat; fried rice and some bean concoction) which I always look forward to after an eight hour stint in the salon.

The woman who is just always there, I guess the salon is a social networking hub, so why not be there?

Precious (one of the two hair dressers, working alongside Keesha) is having man troubles. There is the ‘African man’, (never specific about country) who is a bit of a bug-a-boo, but pays the bills so has his uses. There is the Jamaican man with the fancy sports car that pulls up occasionally and goes in to the very popular God Bless Caribbean restaurant next door (yes ladies, ‘God Bless’ is a bigger brand than you know), but I’m not sure if he’s giving her any play as he barely ordains us with his presence and gives a fleeting nod of the head on route to the pressing priority of food. Then there is the young English (black British) boy she’s in to. I should add, Precious is in her mid thirties, I can’t imagine any of the men she’s discussed so far have quite made it to thirty yet…. Girl likes to be in control! In and amongst all of these men there is also the baby father, who is rarely discussed and seems a distant memory whose only success was spawning the child and now brings nothing but grievance.

Publish Post

When Precious asked me if I liked English boys I was a little flummoxed. I’d never given nationality much thought, only really race. Time seemed to move at a glacial pace as I sweat thinking of a witty yet vague quip; I’m rarely asked a direct question and as I wanted to be accepted by the gang, I’m mindful that my answer needed to be good. The moment passed and I realised it was a rhetorical question and I was resigned to the role of mute observer, listening to a barrage of tales of sex IN the city, interspersed with dancing (children and mothers sharing the floor) and demonstrations of the some of their best moves in the bedroom.

Raucous does not describe the scene that ensued. As my relaxer began to fizzle and my pores screamed out in pain, Precious sprayed some oil sheen on my tender scalp, as though it were ample substitute for washing the damn thing off. I sat in God Bless, chomping on some crisps (awaiting the rice and peas which would serve as lunch and dinner) amongst virtual strangers listening to tales of lust, love and all the stuff in-between.

PS- We at blackhairstudio would like to take this opportunity to send our love and prayers to those who have been affected by the crisis in Haiti. Please show your support by donating to the following http://www.dec.org.uk/donate_now/

Thank you!

Calamity Jane #1 God Bless Hair Salon!

2010-01-10T21:05:00.006Z

You know the type of place….. We all do. It’s the cross we are born to bear as black women. And for those that have evaded this destiny that befalls us, I salute you, knowing the thought of it still rests uneasy in your soul; waking you at night in a cold sweat, tatty Louis Vutton headscarf (bargain from East Street market) strewn aside as a constant reminder of what is at stake.

God Bless hair salon, nestled deep in the urban sprawl of Peckham, or as the Guardian reading, fine art painting, latte drinking, south London gallery going newest wave of residents to the area would have you believe; located on the cusp of East Dulwich.

God Bless is the place where the down and out, the on their way up and the damn I finally made it descend to have their hair done. Why? Because Keesha, the enigmatic virtuoso stylist (adds more pazzaz than simply saying hairdresser) is amazing!
The problem…. In order to get the haircut that leaves you looking edgier than Rihanna (hopefully a little more considerate of any large forehead issues), or the weave that’s blows further and longer than Beyonce’s (lace front is expensive so ladies bear this in mind when you want to emulate Mrs Knowles Carter. Glue is not the answer) or the braids that put Brandy’s (think the Moesha era) to bed, we must endure what Dante’s Divine Comedy so aptly described as the circles of hell. If Dante thought he had it bad, bopping (pre-Timberlands, but you know the sort) around the Inferno with his homeboy Virgil, chasing after some chick, Beatrice, I challenge him to a day in our world - Peckham, Brixton, Stratford, New Cross or any of the plethora of non gentrified locations we embrace for the sake of hair.

First Circle of hell (Limbo)
I have heard it said before…. probably on Sex And The City which I’ve watched so often it’s blurred my reality and I have started describing people as the characters in the show not only to convey superficial traits such as style or size or hair colour, but actual defining characteristics…. As though every woman in the world is either a Samantha ‘sex crazed, ambitious, diva’ Jones or Miranda ‘cynical and perpetually troubled’ Hobbs or Carrie ‘self interested, self important pain in the arse’ Bradshaw or Charlotte ‘prudish, but ended up with the best man’ York….
Where was I? That’s right, I’m plagiarising Candace Bushnell… I have heard it said before that a New York woman is always searching for three things; The perfect job (who isn’t?); The perfect apartment (ain’t that the truth. I’ve lived in enough rat infested shoe boxes in this fair city to know landlords have the audacity to charge you £120 a week for the ‘privilege’ of over looking the DLR) and the perfect relationship (call me Miranda… but does such a thing exist?). Well I know any black New Yorker, Londoner, Parisian or indeed a black woman living anywhere on the globe, would add hair dresser to that list.

A hair dresser to black women is what a tanning salon has become for white women (since they caught their men downloaded images of Beyonce and Eva Mendes as their screen savers). Both are equally capable of making the best and the worst of us. Superficial perhaps, but unequivocally essential.

Like most women I’m always in search of a good hair dresser; My definition of which is, someone who uses the best products (KeraCare, Organics, Wave Nouveux – Yes ladies the 80s are back and curly perm is making a rampant come back), knows how to cut (into a style and not just trim the edges of that circa 1985 bob) and is affordable (£30 for a relaxer, £20 for a steam, £40 for a weave, £10 for a cut). I need someone who is capable of delivering my experimental looks, who can cut and weave and glue whatever is necessary to deliver that style. I’m not of the pretentious ilk who pays the earth for a mediocre haircut in Knightsbridge, because white people recognise the name of the salon, so it must be good. Nor do I wish for a weave that looks like it was done by a visually impaired, bald Norwegian monk, who has never come across scissors, let alone human hair, glue and a skull cap (Naomi take note – you can take the girl out of South London, but sometimes you need to keep a little bit of the South London in the girl – In particular the hair region). A hair dresser is like a doctor, there to pick you up when you are low and help you recover from the abuses life has thrown at you and return the spring to your high heeled step.

My former hair dresser (the ultimate fashionista whose afro weave attracted me and every Jon B looking man in the room) was moving back to Holland and I was at odds with how next to do my hair and most significantly where to go to find that trusted stylist. Limbo doesn’t describe my sense of loss, especially as a woman who so frequently changes her hair style, I needed someone fast – It was week five and the current weave had to go.

My soirée with the God Bless hair salon was not a singular steadfast decision spurred on by a self-deprecating advert (an oxymoron I know) in a glossy magazine, but rather the kind of relationship spawned from habit and a certain unhealthy addiction to cheapness. Besides you’re more likely to hear God Bless being advertised on one of south east London’s finest pirate radio stations. Metro Loves Radio aka MLR is my personal favourite and the ad about the big bootie Giarrl clothing range cracks me up every time.

I stumbled upon a client of Keesha’s (I later discovered all her clients were her friends, so her professional manner, which had never been honed, left much to be desired) one summers afternoon strolling through the fume packed aisles of Morrison’s in Peckham, where on a Saturday you are sure to experience the great spectrum of humanity scoping the aisles for a bargain or at the very least crack. Always feeling the need to pay a compliment when it is so clearly due (women don’t do that enough to one another), I dodged the missile throwing army of children (all with a Mohawk – it was the summer of 2008 and Pharrell Williams had a lot to answer for), approached the lady with the sharp crop and asked where she had gotten her hair done. From that day forth a relationship was born. A relationship which took me from a ramshackle barbers in Peckham where the men leer, the stylists fight (normally over who has used whose products and who slept with whose man – the anger is always in equal measure) and the DVDs are all copies, where she was first based, to a shed next to a bike shop in Camberwell and finally to my spiritual home, God Bless.

SEE you next week for more frolics at God Bless.
I should say that, I have changed any of the names of the people in this blog, although God Bless Salon really does exist, however it has been taken over by new management and Keesha no longer works there. Good luck tracking her down, it’s a feet which has thus far evaded me.

Welcome to our Blog

2010-01-10T19:57:00.003Z

Hello!

I'm Dionne Quarshie, Owner of Blackhairstudio - soon to become your one-stop shop for information about afro, frizzy and curly hair. At the moment me and my trusty team are working hard (very hard) to get blackhairstudio.com up and running. In the mean time I asked my dear friend Jane to dish the dirty about her experiences hair raising experiences as she battles her way through the salons of London as she tries to find the one that will give her the least drama and the best hair... lets see how she gets on.

Don't forget to checkout our website- www.blackhairstudio.com - our twitter @bhstudio - our facebook - www.facebook.com/blackhairstudio and email us at info@blackhairstudio.com - we would love to hear from you.

In the mean time - Enjoy!

Dionne xxx