Pregnancy had given me the longest and thickest hair in years. I had not even noticed how much my hair had grown until I started losing it.
With every wash and every stroke of the brush, I would hold strands of hair in my hand. The gentle weight of my hair felt lighter, and the bun looked smaller each day, while all I could do was stand by and bear witness to the quiet loss of length and volume.
As weeks turned to months, my hair grew thinner and shorter. Meanwhile, I bought new brushes, established a scalp massage routine, switched to a different shampoo and conditioner, and then another one, tried various supplements, and opted for more protective styles that reduced tension on the roots. It did not stop the hair loss.
These recollections are from my forthcoming debut (Dis)entangled. Why Black Hair Can’t Be Just Hair, which explores how Black hair shapes our self-perception and how others perceive us.
Based on extensive psychological research and in-depth interviews with individuals who share their hair stories, the book unravels the deeply personal relationship as well as the cultural and social significance of Black hair. In the book, my own hair story is interwoven with stories from Black individuals, revealing how hair connects to identity, beauty, gender, race, resilience, and the collective storytelling of Black communities worldwide.
For months, following the birth of my first child, I struggled privately with the change in my appearance. On my son’s second birthday, my phone showed me a memory from his first birthday: I was striding through the garden with a big smile. In one hand, I held my son. In the other, I carried the sugar-free blueberry cake I had made. And even though we were limited to a small outdoor celebration with closest family members only due to social distancing restrictions put in place to curb Covid-19, I had taken the time to style my hair and let my curls out (a risky choice with the curious hands of a one-year-old so close by), the strands falling well down to my chest.
One year later, my hair had thinned out and was less than chin-length. The shortness was unfamiliar, and most days I tried and failed to style the short hair in a way that made me feel feminine, beautiful, or attractive.
Over 3,000 products marketed towards Black women are hazardous.
You may have heard stories about the complicated, often fraught relationship that many people with curly and coily hair have with their natural hair texture. A relationship born from living in a society that conditioned us to think that beauty depends on having straight hair. Add to that the persistent idea that long hair is a sign of femininity, and the pressure doubles. For Black and mixed-race women, whose curls naturally shrink, the challenge becomes twofold: the stigma of textured hair and the perception of shortness. For me, embracing my curly hair truly happened once my hair grew long-ish. So when I lost that length – and all it represents – the impact was emotionally more taxing than I expected.
The insecurities I was struggling with privately were exacerbated by the fact that people around me also noticed the change in my hair. One day, walking back from work, a colleague said, “You used to have such beautiful, long, curly hair.” What do you reply to that? How do you make sense of postpartum hair loss? Does it even count as postpartum hair loss, if you experience it more than a year after giving birth? Another time, my mother asked gently if I had cut it. But I had not (yet) cut my hair, it had simply fallen out to the degree that it looked a lot shorter. Each comment hit harder than I was willing to admit. I had to blink away tears and tried to laugh it off, downplaying how devastated I was over losing my hair and length.
Straight hair – like thinness – is once again the beauty standard, and I've fallen for it.
Back in 2022, I eventually went to the hairdresser's for a haircut. Letting go of precious centimetres of length was difficult, but under her skilled hands, my hair finally seemed to come to life again, framing my face in a cute yet bold way that seemed to reveal something new. In the weeks and months that followed, I bought black-rimmed glasses, tried a statement red lipstick and played with turtleneck pullovers. And finally, I started to feel, once again, comfortable in my skin.
Getting to that point where I could cut my hair had taken more than courage – it required accepting change. But if pregnancy and motherhood had taught me anything, it was that change is sometimes inevitable. And so, I welcomed change.
As I approach weaning my second child, I find myself once more bracing for the possibility that I might lose, or shed, hair. This time around, I feel better prepared. Just as I knew what it feels like to birth a human, I now know that I may lose a lot of hair. I remind myself that it is just hair. But after a decade of researching Black hair, I also know that it is never just hair. It’s about how we present ourselves to the world and how the world decides whether we fit in or stand out, and whether we are attractive, beautiful, professional, or likeable.
Johanna M. Lukate is the author of (DIS)ENTANGLED. WHY BLACK HAIR CAN’T BE JUST HAIR, published by Coronet, an imprint of Hodder & Stoughton. Copyright © 2025 by Johanna M Lukate.
Straight hair – like thinness – is once again the beauty standard, and I've fallen for it.
