The Big South African Hair Book

Kwela Books

To Myra, Barbara, Anita & Donovan. My first home.

Section One: My #NaturalHair

Chapter 1:

The #NaturalHair Journey

Memories of my hair PR (pre-relaxer) are scant.

Aged five, I was a flower girl in a family wedding. Somehow, I found myself in a salon chair on the morning of the ceremony. To be honest, I don’t know who was unhappier that I’d landed there – me, or the stylist assigned to turn my unruly, thick bush into something cherubic, cute and fit for the occasion. After an hour – or an eternity, you’ll forgive my memory more than 30 years later – my hair submitted. Usually in plaits and pigtails, my hair had been transformed into a root-defying style of smooth, springy ringlets. Despite the burn left on my forehead from the curling iron, and the fact that I hated every minute in that chair, I felt like a princess. I looked like the little girls in the ads on TV. I was finally beautiful.

But that was a special occasion. My normal hair routine, if you could call it that, was a lot less glamorous. Every Saturday, I was sent to our backdoor neighbour, Aunty Dolly. I’d get my hair washed and styled for church the next day and then the school week. Aunty Dolly would wash my hair in a waskom at the outside tap, using the same technique usually reserved for sheets, shirts and socks. She washed roughly, quickly, and thoroughly.

After the laundry treatment, I’d be wedged between her thighs as she manipulated my mane into pigtails, using a fine-tooth comb and a generous helping of Vaseline. Every time I’d fight against the pulling and plucking, she’d tighten her grip. ‘You must suffer for beauty, my girl,’ she’d say. Once the suffering was over, and beauty ostensibly achieved, I’d be sent off to play in the sunshine, letting my thick pigtails airdry.

Thick. Unruly. Bushy. Suffer. Kroes.

These were the messages I received, very early. It’s no wonder then that I didn’t exactly love my hair. I experienced my first relaxer in my early school days; I must’ve been about seven or eight. It’s strange that I have no recollection of the event, despite it being the stuff of absolute obsession. Growing up on the Cape Flats in the 1990s, the pursuit of styl hare was beyond a trend, it was a sport played at the Olympic level. The MVPs, the ones everyone emulated, were: Toni Braxton with her sleek pixie cut; Whitney Houston’s voluminous pouf; Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson’s long, curly manes; and Aaliyah’s pin straight, sleek ’do. Back then, we didn’t know that many of these styles were achieved through Hollywood trickery, weavery and wiggery. The desire for gladde hare, good hair, meant that any girl who knew how to wield a barrel brush and a 1 200-watt blow-dryer was queen.

Finding a pair of stockings on a cold winter’s morning to wear to school that hadn’t been converted into a swirlkous? Impossible. We knew our root touch-up schedule better than our school timetables. We used products called Bone Strait, and hardening gels like La Pebra’s – anything to achieve the silky, soft hair we’d see on the relaxer packaging box. Weekends were like our tournaments: wash, condition, oil treatment, roller set, blow-dry, swirlkous. We set aside an entire day to get our hair to look as sleek as possible.

While there were those who succeeded at this game, I always felt like I was on the losing team. I hated the process. I hated having to relax my hair and I especially hated the outcome. Even though my hair was soft and supposedly easier to manage with chemical intervention, I resented the straight, stringy, limp hair.

I found myself wishing for those hair washing sessions with Aunty Dolly. I missed the thickness and weight of my girlish pigtails. I missed the freedom of playing outside when my hair needed to dry. To an extent, I’ve always felt that attempts to tame my mane were also attempts to tame me – to mangle and manipulate me into someone I didn’t even aspire to be. My hair was a constant bone of contention, a running argument between my mother and me. While everyone marvelled at how smooth my relaxed hair was, I was never hare verskrik. I couldn’t care less if it was neat or tidy. I didn’t care whether it went home – or rather reverted to its true kroes state – on a rainy, misty Cape Town day.

Meisie, kyk hoe lyk jou hare

By the time high school arrived, I took over the chore of caring for my own hair. While I was responsible for making myself look decent for school, I wasn’t actually in control of how I chose to look. I’d still dutifully, reluctantly wash my hair, blow-dry it and get it ready for school in a ponytail, bun or plait. Every two months, when my mother complained about the state of my hair, I’d submit to getting it relaxed, usually at home. At that stage, I had no real relationship with my hair, I did what needed to be done. I wanted to fit in, after all, straight and straightened hair was the norm. But no matter how much oil moisturiser, or hair food, or relaxer I applied, no matter how many roller sets or high-speed heat stylings I did, my hair was always dry, unruly, and on the brink of betraying its true roots at any moment. Throughout high school, I remember my scalp being in constant distress: scabby, itchy and flaky. The opposite of a good look.

Later in my teen years, my older sister would book appointments for us at her favourite salon. I’d go along mostly to spend time with her. I remember sitting in the salon chair, waiting until the last possible minute to alert the stylist to my burning scalp, hoping that the extra time would ensure maximum straightness before she’d have to rinse out the relaxer. But, even then, looking at the pictures of Toni, Janet, Mariah and Whitney on the salon walls, I knew this was all futile. This wasn’t even what I really wanted.

I first tasted freedom when I left for university at seventeen. Varsity granted me license to experiment with my hair. I went longer and longer between relaxer appointments, using my broke student status or my distrust of the stylists in my university town as my excuse whenever anyone asked. Oh, and they definitely asked. ‘When are you going to do something with that hair?’

But I was enjoying the feeling of the new growth appearing at my roots, even if I didn’t quite understand what to do with it. After all, this was 2002. There were little to no products on shelf for someone like me, who was transitioning back to natural hair. We didn’t even have that vocabulary yet. In media, there were a handful of people who were doing this (whatever it was) with their hair.

It was the year Bridget Masinga walked the Miss South Africa stage with her gorgeous afro. Before her, we’d seen Lauryn Hill, Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, Mel B from the Spice Girls, and Kelis. The list was short and the looks seemed out of reach for a girl like me. Nonetheless, I used my varsity years as the perfect time to try things: I transitioned, I tried locs, I combed those out, had my hair in twists, went natural, but went back to heat-styling. By the time I walked across the stage to receive my honour’s degree, I finally had a ’fro. But I also had no idea what to do with it.

Creamy crack is wack

One whole year. That’s how long I had my afro out before I went back to the creamy crack. Now, don’t judge me. I had no idea how to maintain my hair. The only products on shelves were the same oil moisturisers I’d known in my youth. So, I reluctantly went back to what I knew – dry hair, flaky scalp and all.

While I was making my appointments for root touch-ups and fiddling with a flat iron, the world was changing around me. All I had to do was pay attention. Obsessive googling led me to American bloggers such as Naptural85 (Whitney White) and CurlyNikki (Nikki Walton) and locally, Good Hair & Beauty Diaries (Kavuli Nyali). There was finally a vocabulary for what I wanted to do: transition, go natural, and join the burgeoning natural hair movement. There were other women like me, others who rejected the idea that straight hair = good hair. I was no longer someone who didn’t care about her hair, I was part of this global sisterhood of women who wanted to discover their true texture for themselves.

That was all the encouragement I needed to decide that creamy crack was wack. I never went back.

In 2010, I skipped a few touch-up appointments and visited a barber to get the Big Chop. I remember feeling scared but excited. Armed with my new blogosphere research and my DIY kitchen recipes for hair tinctures, I knew that once my relaxed locks were lopped off, that was it. I threw myself into the world of natural hair like a woman possessed. I ordered products from overseas on recommendation from American bloggers, I spent hours cooking up oil mixtures and homemade hair butters in the kitchen of my studio apartment. I remember almost ruining the bathroom in my rented flat when I first tried henna as a protein treatment. Every day I was learning more about my hair, more about myself. The hair that was the constant battle of my youth – thick, unruly, bushy, kroes, was suddenly soft, bouncy, full, curly and coily.

At the time, I wasn’t the only woman going through this hair renaissance. Between 2010 and 2015, haircare was amongst the fastest growing categories of products sold in South Africa, with sales climbing 38% during that period, according to a Euromonitor report.¹ I wasn’t just part of a global sisterhood; the sisterhood came to South Africa too.

Multi-textured. Low porosity. Curly. Coily. Beautiful.

The last ten years have been a journey. And, like with any journey, it’s had its ups and downs. I’ve Big Chopped twice more since that initial visit to the barber. I’ve had heat damage, colour damage, tangles and knots, and wished I could wake up looking like Tracee Ellis Ross. We’ve all been there! I’ve done every thoughtless, trendy thing that I could’ve done to a crop of natural hair (I’m looking at you, ill-advised dye job of 2017!) and my curls have lived to tell the tale.

I’m thankful that I’m no longer in a prolonged battle with my hair. Now, I feel like it’s a true reflection of who I am, a vehicle for my self-expression. When I look in the mirror, I know that the person looking back at me is me, not someone trying to look like a beauty ideal that they don’t even believe in. My hair and I are in a true relationship, a marriage: sometimes it’s a dream, sometimes it’s difficult. But when I look at it, I know this is the hair I chose and I’m happy it’s the hair that chose me.

It’s this hair happiness that I want every naturalista to experience, and what drove me to write this book. In this house, we don’t believe in good hair or bad hair, we believe in happy, healthy hair. The good news? I believe every woman can achieve healthy hair. The not-so-great news? It takes is a lot of patience, some know-how, and a little time.

Every day, I’m asked questions about my hair. Women stop me in the mall, people send me direct messages on social media or send me emails:

‘How do I grow my hair?’

‘How can I get my hairline back?’

‘My hair is dry, which products should I use?’

‘How do I get my hair like yours?’

The last question still blows my mind: to think that anyone would want to achieve hair like mine? Hair that was once labelled difficult, untidy, unruly and kroes? While it’s flattering, I reject it. All our hair is unique and beautiful. My advice has remained the same over the years: you have to listen to your hair to achieve the hair of your dreams. It’s not about becoming the next Solange Knowles or Sho Madjozi. This is, at its root, a personal journey.

More than most, I understand the frustration, the endless googling, and the temptation to call up a salon for a relaxer appointment. But with so many options and so many resources available, there’s no need to ever long for straightened locks again. I believe there are common things that all our hair requires, like moisture, water and TLC. I don’t have all the answers, which is why I called up people who do. I’ve spoken to influencers, stylists, experts, scientists and brand owners to collate some of the best hair advice in South Africa just for you. This book is filled with amazing hair-stories, so look out for the Natural Know-How and Coily Q&A sections throughout to hear from different experts.

This book is for you if you’re feeling curl-curious and are interested in starting your natural hair journey. This book is also for you if you’ve been natural for a while but need a refresher course in haircare basics. Dealing with postpartum shedding, hairline issues, and don’t know where to turn? Then, this book is for you. This book is also for you if you have no interest in going natural, but just want to understand why the rest of us are so obsessed with our curls and coils.

Thank you for purchasing and reading this book. And remember: healthy hair is good hair – and we all deserve to have happy, healthy natural hair!

Here’s to healthy, happy hair!

COILY Q&A

‘I shaved my head when I was sixteen.’

Kavuli Nyali, founder of Good Hair & Beauty Diaries

Twitter: @GoodHairDiaries

How did your natural hair journey start?

I was in high school at the time when artists like Mos Def and Common were underground artists. I was very political – and extra – in high school. I can’t remember the exact song. Maybe it was ‘Brown Skin Lady’ by Black Star, and Talib [Kweli] was talking about beautiful black hair and skin. That inspired me to just shave my head. I was in my bedroom. I must’ve been about sixteen years old. When I came out of my room, my mom was like, ‘What did you just do?’

So, you come out of your bedroom with a shaved head – then what?

My mom totally tripped. She took pride in taking me to the salon to get my hair washed, relaxed and pressed. That was our bonding session. At the time, my hair was long but I wouldn’t say it was in the healthiest state. My mother’s reaction was a combination of: ‘Is she going through something?’ and ‘What are we going to do now?’

At the time, we didn’t really have access to the internet and no one in my family was natural. The only natural hair we saw in the general space were dreadlocks and I wasn’t going to loc my hair. In media, there was maybe Erykah Badu, but I wouldn’t say she influenced my decision.

Did you know how to take care of your hair?

I had no idea how to take care of my