This story appeared in the October issue of VICE magazine.
I was born with afro hair. In 1999, at the age of five, I watched the music video for TLC’s “Unpretty” for the first time. I obsessively analysed the silken flow of Chilli’s black shiny mane as she gyrated in a field of animated purple flowers. Soon it all became very clear to me: her black hair looked nothing like mine.
Videos by VICE
So I did what any five-year-old would do and asked my mum if I could get my hair relaxed so it would resemble Chilli’s. This is how the messy, tumultuous and at times unhealthy love story between me and my hair began. For years to come, I’d do everything in my power to achieve my personal white whale: long, straight hair.
Having grappled with these issues for most of my life, three years ago I realised something upsetting. I had chemically straightened and manipulated my hair to such an extent, and for such a vast portion of my existence, that I no longer knew what my natural hair looked like.
The solution to this problem was to cut it off.
Today my hair and I have a loving relationship. But although I’ve come to peace with my locks, there are still some unresolved issues. For example, I’ve never been to a hairdresser. Not because I didn’t want to, it was just hard for me to reach one where I lived. As a teenager, my only option to get my hair box-braided was to travel several hours to my aunt Jolie’s place.
Similarly, the simple task of purchasing hair care products proved difficult. Growing up in a small city in Sweden, getting hold of the right products for my hair required enormous effort and determination. In the past, I’ve travelled to England to stock up and I’ve even ordered products online from places on the other side of the world, which is ridiculous for someone living in a country considered to be progressive.
According to the Afro-Swedish Association, approximately 200,000 of Sweden’s 9.8 million citizens are of African or African diasporan descent. I’m not a mathematician, but considering that afro hair isn’t excluded to people of first-generation African or African diasporan descent, the number of individuals looking for the same services as me is going to be pretty high. Accordingly, you’d imagine the market for afro hair products in Sweden would have a noticeable presence. But this is not the case. Sweden’s mainstream beauty market seems to have overlooked citizens with non-Caucasian hair types—an issue that has only recently gained national attention.
So the key questions here are: How can a market’s exclusion of a demographic be considered normal? Why is buying a suitable shampoo at your local pharmacy even an issue? And most importantly, why is growing up with non-Scandinavian hair in Scandinavia still a hassle?
Browsing the stock of Sweden’s two leading hair and beauty retailers, I soon discovered that the assortment of products suitable for afro hair was almost non-existent. Although one of the retailers tried to broaden their inventory earlier this year by including the first-ever Swedish make-up brand for darker skin, it seems the second retailer has not felt the need to follow suit.
Some might argue that getting hold of any niche product requires a certain amount of effort, regardless of what it is. But the problem is more deeply rooted than that. I believe the issue lies in a long history of shaming around afro hair. An unfortunate by-product of this is a lack of knowledge within the general, non-afro-haired public, as well as a perceived unwillingness to speak about it.
Sadly, the shaming is also alive and well within the black community. Go on Instagram right now and within a minute you’ll find memes comparing different types of black hair, categorising it as “good” or “bad”. Good hair is black hair with Caucasian or Asian characteristics, such as straight or wavy textures and loosely coiled curls. Bad hair is black hair with typical afro characteristics, like tightly coiled curls, sometimes called “nappy”. The general sentiment is that curly-haired black women with a lighter skin tone and “good hair” are worth glorifying. If, on the other hand, you are born with darker skin and kinkier “bad hair”, your type is often depicted as aggressive, “ghetto” and unattractive.
Thinking back, I can remember several heart-wrenching memories. Heart-wrenching at the time because no-one could see the self-loathing and insecurity nestled between my dark locks. Heart-wrenching now because that self-loathing and insecurity was there to begin with. I could never allow myself to feel as though my hair was adequate in its natural state, because my perception of what was beautiful did not include people who looked the way I did. And although the feeling was never verbalised, it was very much tangible.
The author. Photo by Maximiliam Gernandt
Today things seem to be moving forward when it comes to the normalisation of afro hair in Swedish society. It’s a hot topic in the media and online. But has this helped sway public opinion?
I reached out to Hélen Pellbäck, hairdresser and vocational studies teacher at Björn Axén, one of Sweden’s leading hair care and hairstyling companies. I asked her if they work with afro hair, and for her views on the issue.
“During our basic training we talk about different hair types and of course afro hair is one of those,” she says. “We talk about its texture, what it needs in terms of products and care. What do we need to consider when treating afro textures in comparison to other hair types? Sadly we don’t get to work as much practically with afro hair as we do with other hair types, simply because we have fewer clients with afro-textured hair. And that is why we wish more clients with afro hair would come to us. I think that’s where we have room for improvement. How do we get people with afro hair to feel like they are in safe hands at our salons?”
While speaking to other Afro-Swedes, many confirmed that they no longer consider going to a typical high-street hair salon for a number of reasons. One guy I spoke to, for example, visited a standard salon and while sat in the styling chair, the hairstylist called in three other colleagues to have an open debate about how to cut afro texture. In another incident, a hairstylist insisted that a female client should get her hair permed because straightening it, she said, would make her “seem more together”.
This notion of attributing certain characteristics to people who choose to wear their hair in its natural state is sadly not uncommon. If you wear your afro naturally, for example, is it a political statement, or are you simply not bothered about your appearance? Is wearing an afro considered unprofessional, or is it perhaps unsuitable for important or black-tie occasions?
As I get older, I am able to objectively grasp the level of internalised hatred that has been a part of my identity, as it is for many people from similar backgrounds. And the more I see it, the more my anger and frustration grows.
Amat Levin, a black rights activist, columnist and PR strategist, recalls an experience that touches on this. “I once applied for a job that I needed very badly at the time,” he says. “Around 300 people applied for the job and I was one out of the four who actually got it. All was well until the last interview. At the end of our conversation, the employer says: ‘Great! So just cut your hair and I’ll see you on Monday.’ And I was like: ‘What do you mean?’ And he said: ‘Well…’ but couldn’t finish the sentence. It was obvious that what he was trying to say was that my hair didn’t look ‘professional’ enough. He just couldn’t say it out loud. So I actually ended up declining the job offer.
“When you think about it, it’s quite crazy,” Levin adds. “Imagine someone declining an individual with Scandinavian-looking hair for the same reason. It would have been different if I had a crazy hair colour or facial piercings, but it was my natural hair! The hair growing from my head. And I think that was a crucial moment for me, where I felt like I had to stand my ground for my own peace of mind.”
So now the real question is how do we tackle this?
To begin with, we need to identify that there is an issue and that this issue affects us all. That includes our rhetoric, our viewpoint and our actions. The second step is holding the market accountable. It can be quite simple. When the public demands, the market has to deliver. So start demanding: from your local pharmacy, via beauty chains, to the media. When we accept under-representation—on TV, in movies and across communities—we accept oppression. Speak up, because your opinion and input is what forms our society.
More from the October issue of VICE Magazine:
