They say your hair is the frame for the picture of your face. As a writer, I feel that my hair has been the foreword to each chapter of my life's story.

Growing up multiracial in a white family and community during the 1970s, my hair was always a topic of conversation. Family, strangers, and even people at school talked about it, especially since my prep school straw bonnet wouldn't fit over my Afro. To keep it on, my dad sewed in an elastic band that I wore under my chin. No hairdresser knew how to cut my hair, so my white dad would cut it with the bacon scissors in the kitchen. He did his best to make it feel special, and it is still one of my fondest memories.

In my mid-teens, I switched to a state comprehensive school,  and my hair remained a talking point. This time, however, the comments were less positive: "Crazy," "Wild," "Bush," and "Loud."

This post is only for paying members only

Become a paying Disruptors member to read this post and gain access to more exclusive stories, events, opportunities and community while supporting an independent media company.

Sign up now Already have an account? Sign in