Untangling issues on dreadlocks, weaves, natural curls

Francesca Villette

Francesca Villette

Published Aug 31, 2016

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I WILL never forget the moment the magnitude of the multibillion-rand superficial hair industry became a reality for me.

In fact, it was just last month.

I booked an appointment at a hair salon in the CBD because I wanted to get something I don’t, and have never had: dreadlocks.

I was nervous at first. Artificial dreadlocks were a big step for me, and it meant I would have to permanently say goodbye to my very fine, soft, curly hair.

So, there I was. I sat down on the black swivelling salon chair in front of a full-length mirror.

Several times, the hairdresser, Jane, told me that what I was about to do was 
permanent, there was no going back.

“I want this. I want to be like my Khoisan ancestors,” I reassured both Jane and myself, again.

As Jane presented the first faux lock to crochet into my hair, a black woman seated herself next to me.

She was friendly and greeted me with a warm smile. She had dreadlocks that she had not maintained, and she wanted a change too.

“Oh, Jane is doing your hair. She is amazing. I always come here,” she said.

As her hairdresser started braiding her hair, I remember thinking how wonderfully thick her hair was.

About 20 minutes later, I thought her hair was done.

The woman next to me had beautifully patterned braids, and Jane was still busy crocheting threads into my limp locks.

But I was wrong.

Her hairdresser went to the back, and returned with a pack of 20-inch wavy Indian Remy hair.

My heart sank.

The woman whose hair I had admired was getting a weave.

Why, I thought to myself, as a wave of sorrow and shame washed over me.

There I was, getting artificial dreadlocks, sitting next to a woman who cut hers to have long wavy hair.

I turned my gaze to my reflection, and for the very first time in my life looked at my thin, limp curls a little differently.

They are my curls. This is my hair. My power.

But it was too late. I could not go back.

Seven hours later, and I was done.

I had a full head of dreadlocks interwoven with red and blonde strands beaming the message “Come look at me, 
I am the Earth, I am Khoisan”.

I loved my new hair. 
I embraced compliments beamed back to me – they were generous and affirming.

But deep down, a small 
part of me stirred rather uncomfortably.

The whispers that emanated from this depth lambasted not the artificial dreadlocks, but my betrayal of my God-given locks.

Is that strange? Is that weird?

I thought so for a while, until I realised that it was not strange at all.

A day or two later, my fine curls spewed the dreadlocks, one faux strand at a time.

A week later, the hairstyle started looking quite untidy despite my attempts at taming it by putting it in one nifty bun after the other – on top of my head, at the back of my head, and wherever else this slowly declining mass of locks could hold its own and still look “cool”.

Then, after a few (long) and painful hours of combing and yanking I had “un-crocheted” my once glorious, though short-lived new mane.

Yet, even since, few people have seen my fine soft curls I talk about because I wear clip-in hair extensions. Every single day.

How can I really profess to love my natural hair on the one hand, but not find the 
courage to embrace it in 
public as openly as I want to, and need to?

What happened to those echoes of identity and power, not so long ago?

Is it society’s pervasive and perverse definition of beauty that has left this lasting and skewed impression?

Is that it, because I went to a predominantly white, Afrikaans primary school and had friends who could effortlessly wear straight, neat fringes all the time?

Could it be that one teacher’s advice that ironing your hair will help you to fit in?

I’m still figuring it out.

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