Happy Holidays From Blackhairstudio!

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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. 

CJ