One of my earliest memories of hair care dates back to when I was 5 years old. I had spent hours writhing in a beauty salon chair while my hair was being braided — but the real drama started when I went to bed that evening. My temples pulsed, my crown ached, and I spent much of the night figuring out how to use my forehead as a pillow.
A day later, there was brief chatter between my parents and my grandmother. Soon thereafter, I was nestled in my father’s lap while he worked a pair of my grandmother’s sewing scissors through my hair. When I stood up, it didn’t matter that the little hair I had left would not be styled into pretty braids for a while to come. I was simply relieved that I could finally hunt down my abandoned bicycle and play in the garden with my cousin again.
By the age of 13, after years of getting relaxers in my hair at beauty salons, I’d had enough bad hair care experiences to vehemently refuse when my mother would offer to take me. When she took me to get protective styles instead, I often asked for the simplest ones to avoid any potential discomfort.
Until college, when other (trusted) Black women and I would gather to style each other’s hair or take down braids, I started to learn how commonplace our traumatic hair experiences were. We unpacked our varied experiences of hair biases in school and later, reasonable possibilities of microaggressions within the workplace. We also spoke about texturism within the Black community and painful hair care incidents at the beauty salon.
We had begun to confront Black hair trauma, even though we didn’t have the language to name its toll on our mental health yet. What had seemed like small moments (being singled out at school for our natural hair) were actually quiet assaults on our identities and sense of belonging.
There are multiple connections between our hair care and mental health. And just as Black hair has been a target of systemic oppression, it can also be a source of liberation and communal care. As we grew into adults, many of us found validation and the language for the discrimination we’d experienced over the years.
We began healing together, too. We affirmed each other, shared stories, and referred each other to beauty shops that centered on knowledge-sharing and gentleness.
“The way Black individuals wear their hair is often a reflection of their cultural heritage, personal style, and sense of self,” says Afiya Mbilishaka, a Washington, D.C.-based hairstylist and psychologist who founded PsychoHairapy, a global movement using hair as an entry point into Black mental health care.
Rooted in her scholarly research, Mbilishaka’s work emphasizes how intricately hair is tied to self-identity, self-esteem and community. Black hair traditions aren’t just personal, they are relational and intergenerational; they’re passed down through families and nurtured in communal spaces of care and connection.
For Black women, having spaces dedicated to our care pushes back against centuries of being objectified for others’ comfort.
“Black women are often seen as individuals that need to care for others — whether it is consensual or not,” explains Raquel Martin, psychologist and professor at Tennessee State University. “We look at the historical context of individuals of African descent, from enslavement to now, there were many times we were forced to care for others while not being able to care for our own.” And so, subverting this role of caregiver for self-healing is crucial.
Other clinicians are also recognizing the healing power of bringing hair care conversations into therapy rooms. For New York-based psychotherapist and racial equity consultant Kenya Crawford, our hair experiences can reveal more subtle manifestations of trauma.
“There were some cases where I was working with clients who had a really high trauma history, and started to have their hair fall out,” she recalls. In one instance, what seemed like alopecia turned out to be trichotillomania, an anxiety disorder where one pulls out their hair as a coping mechanism.
Houston-based psychologist Nikki Coleman says that healing might include the ability to simply show up as you are — away from the white gaze, while grappling with what it means to be a Black woman.
“When my clients log in and they are still in their bonnet or hair in rollers, it is a brief moment of deep affirmation that we feel at home with each other,” she says. “Conversely, when they are out of alignment with their hair and their identity, we discuss what that feels like and how much their outwardly expression of themselves as a Black woman is policed, scrutinised, and misinterpreted by dominant forces in their environment whether that be race, gender, or class.”
Mental health certification programs such as the one offered by PsychoHairapy are especially empowering because they equip hair care professionals with practical tools to support emotional well-being. Through skills-based training, participants learn how to talk about the history of Black hair, recognize symptoms of common mental health disorders, practice active listening and mindfulness, and connect clients to professional support services when needed.
But this kind of beauty salon care needs to hold space for its providers, too. Hair care professionals are often at risk of their clients’ trauma dumping, so it’s all the more important that they’re not only trained to navigate these moments, but also fairly compensated for the work they do.
“At the beginning of my career, I was very emotional. I used to take their baggage home,“ Mimicha Malago, a nail technician who works in a salon in Pretoria, South Africa, tells me. “But I’ve learned to just listen and not make it mine.” Malago’s reflections demonstrate how emotionally heavy the work can be for beauty salon professionals, especially when they’re not trained to protect their well-being while holding space for clients.
In order for beauty salons to truly center communal care, both the client and the hair care professional should be cared for, asserts Mmakgabo Dlomo, founder of the iNtombi hair care brand.
“Hairdressers may not necessarily be in the greatest place to receive you if they are not making enough [money],” she explains. A reminder that while salons can be sanctuaries for clients, they must not become sites of burnout or exploitation for the professionals doing the care work.
This way, Black beauty and grooming spaces can become both soft and powerful places for both our scalps and selves to land. But as Mbilishaka reminds us, clinical support should never be dismissed.
“Innovative approaches like PsychoHairapy can be beneficial for promoting self-care and boosting self-esteem, they should not be viewed as a replacement for essential clinical treatment when it is truly indicated,” she said. With care and intention, though, beauty salons can bridge the gap as part of a fuller and more holistic approach to mental health.
As Black women, we’re so often scrutinized for how we show up in the world, and our bodies have carried so much harm. Which is why, for me, being lovingly affirmed through hair care is about looking good, yes, but also about internalizing the healing potency of tender touch.
Whether I’m sipping a cup of tea while my hair dries after a wash, or I have rested my head on a friend’s lap while she bases my scalp, these moments are reminders of the gentleness I deserve — and of the gentleness the women who have come before me and who will come after me, deserve.