I was born in London, Ontario, Canada, a product of a interracial relationship. My mother, from Ireland had smoke during her pregnancy- it was the 70s, and as a result I was born under weight. So it was in the hospital that I had my first traumatic hair experience when only a few days old. Born with black curly hair, the doctors had to shave the sides of my head to reveal the veins in my temples. They were the only veins strong enough to insert feeding tubes. I was to small to leave the incubator.

One year later my father, from Malawi, Africa, had to return to his birth country after his student visa ran out. I stayed with my mom and it was the two of us for a while, until my mom meet and married a great man, whom I call dad. His family lineage is from Malta, so my sister’s was too when she was born a year later. My hair as a child was generally in a little fro with bows in it or in two little pigtail puffs and was dry as a desert. My mother never knew what to do with my hair and I think she was afraid to ask. I can’t remember there being anyone around to ask anyways. My childhood was good, fun and a pretty much carefree but as adolescence approached things changed. I became aware of the fact that I didn’t look like the rest of my family around 9 when in the school yard a fellow classmate ask why I was brown when the rest of my family was white. I responded with such innocence. “I guess it just happens that way”

Hair issues and hair problems inevitably followed. I was envious of my sister’s long flowing Mediterranean locks. So at 10, I went in for my first relaxer. I still remember it burning my scalp. I remember the stylist asking if it was burning and my response being “it’s okay” with tears in my eyes. Partly pretending, so I wouldn’t offend the stylist-part of me thought something was wrong. But part of me thought that the more it burns the straighter it would be. I returned the school and there was a fuss between the two grade 6 classes that everyone came out of their classrooms to see me when someone shouted “her hair is straight!” But of course relaxed hair doesn’t look like the pictures of the girls in the magazines, so disappointment unavoidably followed.

The products I used to maintain my pre-teen relaxed hair were so toxic that they made my skin breakout in huge purple blemishes along the hair line. They were so terrible that even the dermatologist suggested I try another hairstyle. At 11, I decided I wanted to have curly hair like a blond model in a magazine and so I head to the salon alone, picture in hand determined to get what I wanted. The stylist explained to me that I couldn’t have my hair like the model, but if I wanted to be curly I had to start all over again. I smiled and said okay- not fully understanding what she meant and still thinking that if it was even a little like the picture I would be happy. She sat me in a chair near the wash basins, no mirror in sight, and fussed with my head and then shampooed and condition. Then she walked me over to a styling chair . The reflection that greeted me was shocking. She had cut ALL of my hair off. It was within an inch of my skull. I didn’t understand. No one explained that this was what I had to do. I ran from the store, took the bus home and cried all the way.

My hair grew back pretty fast so by 13 it was around shoulder length and relaxed again. I had no idea how to maintain it. I was very athletic, basketball, volleyball, track and as a result of all the sport my hair was fuzzy and just swept back. The first year of high school I discover the curling iron. My signature style for that whole year was to pull back my hair in a bun except for two tendrils at the front which I curled and hairsprayed into ringlets every morning. I still wasn’t happy. TLC had come out with Crazy Sexy Cool and T-Boz made me green with envy with her straight platinum blond uber cool cut. I couldn’t look at Chilli without wanting her ultra long black hair. I feared my hair looked like Left Eyes. Mary J, Eve, Faith Evans and all the video girls plagued me until I realized something- yes a little late. It wasn’t their hair! It was a weave! But this time my mother put her foot down.

And then I saw Poetic Justice. Janet Jackson and Her Braids. It was like a revelation. I watch the film and the next day I was at the salon. I had a sore bottom after 8 hours of sitting, asthmatic lungs from breathing in the smoke from burning the ends, and slightly blacken fingers from rolling the melted yaki hair between my fingers to close the braids. But I had what I had wanted for so long. Hair down my back. Those first braids-oh how I swung them!

It was a braided life high school was, almost exclusively, except for a dalliance with a curly weave in 11th grade. I wore that so long that my father (who never said a word about my hair) had to say- “your hair smells kinda funny”. Needless to say I didn’t do that again. Braids were the thing until I moved to Toronto after graduation and discovered for the first time in my life: A Good Salon. One that KNEW ABOUT BLACK HAIR. That explained that relaxers should be put on the scalp. that you should only do a little at time. You should never relax the hair twice. Etcetera . I found them online and their site was detailed with information. I book an appointment and enter the days of texturised hair.

(I will say here that if you are to use a relaxer- which is totally up to you, then google Jazma Hair salon and learn a little something about relaxers. No lye is actually no good.)

I came home that evening with my hair curly. I stood out on my balcony and felt the wind blow my hair around. I wore a wash and go for about a 3 months and then went back in for a touch up. This time they styled it straight. With a hot stove and a curling rod. I was shocked. It moved. I could run my fingers through it. It was shiny. I was ecstatic. Until the next day when I step out of the shower and although I hadn’t washed it the steam had made it fuzzy again. I thought “this sucks”. But I knew what I needed. I needed a hot stove at home! Off to the Black Hair Supply store, 200 bucks later, I had my very own hot stove and 2 different sized barrels. Plugged it in, heated it up, separated a piece of hair and immediately burnt off a large piece of my bangs.

I got better at it, but it took so long that most days I just wore my hair curly. I put blond streaks into it myself, using Jolen because I thought that was gentler. I rocked a semi fro until I went to school out West in Vancouver. Then I found a cheap salon and had girl straighten my hair once a week. I lost the curly pattern almost entirely because of the heat damage. I held out on texturiser touch ups for as long as I could. I used a store bought texturiser that i applied myself around the hair line and waited until I went home to visit the folks to have the rest of my head done. At least- I did for the first year. Then came I time where I couldn’t wait any longer and head to the cheap salon explained what she had to do and trusted she understood.

She didn’t. I am still not sure what happened. All I know is that my hair starting breaking off in huge clumps. Devastated, DEVASTATED I tell you. I swore off salons forever and tried to make do with what was left. Then I put braids in again – but they didn’t look stylish to me anymore. Then one day a girl with amazing looking hair walk into the store where I was working. I knew it wasn’t her real hair but I couldn’t tell what it was. So I asked her. “Interlocking” she said. She gave me the name of the stylist. I called her the next day.

6 years I wore this style. With hair that was black, brown, I even mixed it up with a little blond for a while but this time no one, absolutely NO ONE saw me with out the weave. I graduated with this hair, started my first job with this hair. Moved to other countries and still I had this fake hair. I was constantly told I had beautiful hair. People believed it was mine. I let them think it was. It was easier. But inside I felt like a fraud.

I live in London England now. I live with my incredibly supportive and loving partner. We live on an adorable street right, dead centre of the city. He was the first to bring up my hair when one day I took out the extensions preparing to get them done again the next day. He put his hands to my hair and said “I love your real hair. You should wear it like this.” I laughed because I thought he was kidding. But a seed was planted. Later that same year an apartment on my road came up for rent. A friend at work was looking for a place with her boyfriend and I knew she would love it. But I hesitated to tell her. Why? Because I thought to myself “What if she sees me heading to the salon without the extensions”
I was scared for her to see my real hair.

Then I thought : Something’s Wrong Here.

And there was. There is something very wrong with the idea that I should be ashamed of my hair.

So I started to contemplate taking out the extension. I started wondering why I felt the need to put them in. I thought about going back to the salon in Toronto on my next visit home. I though I would try to find a similar salon here in London. I thought to look on the web. I googled black hair London. And the search returned a video.

That was the beginning of a obsession with natural hair vids and journeys. I could feel the courage growing with every story, every blog every picture of natural hair. I vowed that in the new year I would discover what was underneath all this plastic on my head. Find out what the heck I’ve been hiding all these years.

And I did.

Which brings me here. To this blog. I made my first scissor cut into the extensions on youtube. Check out my first post on this blog if you missed it.

I hope this will be a stepping stone, a ripple in this revolution. This revelation. I hope my stories, postings, pics help you to go natural too.

Because you know what else I’ve discovered?

There is nothing to be ashamed of.

what is your hair story?

Just After Taking out the extentsions

After cutting about 4 inches off