Get out of Hair: Black Girls' Experiences of School Hair Grooming Policies in Jamaica

Get out of Hair: Black Girls’ Experiences of School Hair Grooming Policies in Jamaica by Meshia G-K Brown A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Education in Social Justice and International Studies in Education Department of Educational Policy Studies University of Alberta © Meshia G-K Brown, 2025 Abstract This research aims to shed light on the experiences of Black girls who wear natural hair in a predominantly Black high school in Jamaica. I employ a Black feminist methodology, utilizing conversations and observations to investigate how school hair grooming policies, under the directives of the Ministry of Education, impact Black girls’ schooling experiences. Using an anti-colonial lens, I examine the stories of six female students at Sankofa High School (pseudonym) and the racialized and gendered logics embedded in the school’s hair grooming regulations. I utilize Bacchi’s “What’s the Problem Represented to Be?” (WPR) approach to critically interrogate how Black hair is problematized within policy discourse and institutional practices. The research determined that although Sankofa High School’s written policy does not prohibit any particular hairstyle, its enforcement reveals anti-Black sentiments on the part of teachers and administrators. Afrocentric hairstyles and those linked to anti-colonial resistance movements are often flagged as “inappropriate” for school, while straight hair is deemed “neat” and “well-groomed.” Additionally, a texture-based hierarchy exists, in which kinkier hair types are more likely to be labelled “untidy” and in need of correction. The rationales used to judge hair reflect colonial logics that deemed Eurocentric features as the epitome of beauty and femininity, and Black hair as primitive and unfeminine. Although some students feel compelled to alter their hair texture through heat or chemicals, others actively resist them through everyday acts of defiance, critical questioning, and a desire to reconnect with their African identity. The study intervenes in the academic literature about race, beauty, aesthetics, and belonging in Jamaica and the wider Caribbean. Moreover, it contributes to public conversations about anti-Blackness in Jamaican institutions – which are predominantly led by Black people – and calls for educational policies that affirm and not regulate Black hair. ii Preface This thesis is an original work by Meshia Brown. The research project, of which this thesis is a part, received research ethics approval from the University of Alberta Research Ethics Board 1, Project Name “Natural Hairstyles in Schools,” No. 139384, March 4, 2024. No part of this thesis has been previously published. ORCID: https://orcid.org/0009-0001-9413-8136. iii To my grandparents, Amanda and George Johnson. Your presence still lights my path. iv Acknowledgments “Every mikkle mek a mukkle.” [Every little bit adds up to something bigger.] (Jamaican Proverb) This work, like the Jamaican proverb indicates, is the result of many acts of encouragement, teaching, kindness, patience, and care. Every conversation and every moment of silence and reflection has brought me here. This research exists because I do not walk this road alone. First, I thank my supervisor, Dr. Giselle Thompson, for her constant guidance, thoughtful feedback, and belief in the vision of this work. Your mentorship shaped this thesis in more ways than you know. I am also grateful to the faculty members in the Educational Policy Studies Program for fostering an intellectually rigorous environment that encouraged critical inquiry and engagement with transformative ideas. Special thanks to Mrs. Yvette Wallace-Gordon, my mentor and friend. You were the first to teach me that research is not just about answers, but about dreams, curiosity, and care. To the entire community at Sankofa High School (pseudonym), where I carried out this research, thank you. To the principal, guidance counsellor, teachers, and especially the students who welcomed me and shared their time and stories — your generosity made this research meaningful. You treated me with kindness, respect, and openness, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Thank you! v Table of Contents Abstract ………………………………………………………………………………………….. ii Preface ………………………………………………………………………………………...... iii Dedication ………………………………………………………………………………………. iv Acknowledgments …………………………………………………………………………….… v List of Figures …………………………………………………………………………………... ix Glossary of Hairdos …………………………………………………………………………..… x Chapter 1: Introduction 1.1 Why Hair Rules? …………………………………………………………………………….. 1 1.2 Purpose Statement and Research Questions ………………………………………………... 2 1.3 Background and Rationale ………………………………………………………………….. 3 1.4 Scope and Structure of the Thesis ………………………………………………………….. 13 Chapter 2: Historical Context of Education and the Politics of Black Hair in Jamaica 2.1 Introduction ………………………………………………………………………………… 16 2.2 The Colonial Foundations of Jamaican Schooling ………………………………………… 17 2.3 Historicizing Black Hair …………………………………………………………………… 21 2.3.1 Black Hair Glory: Hair in Pre-Colonial African Society ………………………… 21 2.3.2 Colonial Oppression and Racial Resistance: Black Hair During Slavery ……….. 27 2.3.3 Normalized Whiteness: From Slavery to the Post-Emancipation Era …………… 30 2.3.4 Victorian Ideals and Respectability Politics: Post-Emancipation Era ………….... 33 2.3.5 Post-Emancipation Resistance …………………………………………………… 37 2.3.5.1 Rastafari Movement and the Dreadlocks Hairstyle ……………………. 37 vi 2.3.5.2 Black Power Movements and the Afro Hairstyle ………………….….. 39 2.4 Previous Research on School Hair Grooming Policies ………………………………….… 41 2.4.1 Policy Language: Stigmatization & Stereotypes ………………………………... 41 2.4.2 Psychological Impacts ………………………………………………………...…. 44 2.4.3 Physical Health Impacts ……………………………………………………….… 45 2.5 Conclusion …………………………………………………………………………….…… 46 Chapter 3: Research Methods and Methodology 3.1 Research Design and Methodology ………………………………………………….……. 48 3.2 Research Site ………………………………………………….……………………….….. 51 3.3 Sampling …………………………………………………………………………….……. 52 3.4 Data Collection ………………………………………………….………………………… 53 3.5 Data Analysis ………………………………………………….…………………………... 55 3.6 What is the Problem Represented to be? - WPR Method ………………………………… 56 3.6.1 What is the WPR Method? ………………………………………………….….. 56 3.6.2 The WPR Questions ………………………………………………….…………. 57 Chapter 4: Theoretical Framework: Anti-Colonial Discursive Framework 4.1 What is the Anti-Colonial Discursive Framework? ………………………………………. 62 4.1.1 The “Colonial” in Anti-Colonial Discursive Framework ………………………. 64 4.1.2 The “Anti” in Anti-Colonial ……………………………………………………. 68 4.2 Anti-Colonial, Post-Colonial, and Decolonial Thought ………………………………...… 72 4.3 Anti-Colonial Theory and Its Application to the Study ……………………………….…… 73 Chapter 5: The Problematization of Black Natural Hair 5.1 Introduction ……………………………………………………………………………… 75 vii 5.2 Outward Appearance – Inner Qualities? ………………………………………………… 77 5.3 No Fuzz - No Fuss? ..………………………………………………….……………..…… 82 5.4 Where are the Silences? ………………………………………………….………………. 88 5.5 Afro Hairstyle ………………………………………………….………………………… 91 5.6 Chiney Bumps/Bantu Knots ………………………………………………….………….. 94 5.7 Texturism ………………………………………………….……………………….…….. 96 5.8 Conclusion .………………………………………………….…………………………… 102 Chapter 6: Black Hair Joy 6.1 Introduction ………………………………………………….………………………….. 105 6.2 Rocking Natural Hair ………………………………………………….………………… 108 6.3 Embracing the Kinks ………………………………………………….………………… 111 6.4 Generations of Naturals …………………………………………………….…………… 117 6.5 Conclusion …………...……………………………………….…………………………. 121 Chapter 7: Let’s Get Out of Hair 7.1 Contributions and Recommendations ………………………………………………...… 123 7.2 Limitations and Suggestions for Future Research ……………………………………… 126 References ………………………………………………….…….………………………… 128 Appendix A ….………………………………………………….………………………….. 157 Appendix B ….………………………………………………….………………………….. 161 viii List of Figures Figure # Description Page # Figure 1.1 Three varieties of zig-zag cornrow hairstyle 2 Figure 1.2 Photo Showing Kinky vs Straight Hair 4 Figure 1.3 Photo of ZV Wearing Locs 6 Figure 1.4 Photo from News Media 11 Figure 1.5 Photo of Students Locked Out of School 11 Figure 2.1 Terracotta Artifact Shows Hairstyle 22 Figure 2.2 Nok Civilization Artifact Shows Hairstyle 22 Figure 2.3 Ancient African Comb 25 Figure 2.4 Ashanti Wooden Comb 25 Figure 2.5 Precolonial African Hairstyles 26 Figure 2.6 Hot Combs 33 Figure 2.7 Victorian Fashion in Jamaica 36 Figure 2.8 Functional Attire in Victorian-Era Jamaica 37 Figure 2.9 Women of the Black Panther Party with Afros 39 Figure 5.1 Chiney Bumps/Bantu Knots Hairstyle 95 Figure 5.2 Andre Walker Hair Typing System 101 Figure 6.1 Zahra Redwood, Miss Jamaica Universe 120 Figure 6.2 Davina Bennett, Miss Jamaica 2017 120 Figure 6.3 Dr. Sanneta Myrie, Miss Jamaica World 2015 121 Figure 6.4 Terri Karelle Reid, Miss Jamaica World 2005 121 ix When I became a high school teacher in Jamaica, I was confronted with the paradox of enforcing the very same rules I had once resisted as a student. At that time, I had opted to chemically alter my hair and wear hair extensions and other hairstyles. Many students also relaxed their hair, and those students rarely got in trouble for their hairdos. Black girls with natural hair, on the other hand, were often under scrutiny. It became even clearer that these policies targeted Black natural hair even though the majority of the population and the administrators were Black folks. The rules had been internalized so deeply that they were enforced and passed down through generations as if they were self-evident truths. But hair policies are not just about hair. They are tools to regulate the Black body, to force it into a mould that it was never meant to fit. This realization sparked some burning questions: What lies beneath hair grooming policies, and how do they impact the students subjected to them? Figure 1.1 Photo Showing Three Variations of Zig-Zag Cornrow Hairstyle Source. Ayub, 2024 - Tuko Media Ltd. 1.2 Purpose Statement and Research Questions The purpose of this qualitative study is to understand how school hair policies impact female high school students in Jamaica. The research is guided by the following questions: 2 ● How do high school female students experience school hair policies? ● How do female students perceive school hair grooming policies? ● What are the implications of these policies? 1.3 Background and Rationale In his renowned statement, “Remove the kinks from the minds, not the hair,” Marcus Garvey, Jamaica’s first national hero and distinguished political activist, conveyed a resounding message. He urged Black people2 to defy societal beauty standards by embracing the natural beauty of their kinky hair and their rich African heritage. There is no one single type of Black hair3 as it comes in a variety of shapes, colours, and growth patterns. Sherrow (2023) highlights the vast range of textures in Black natural hair, from thin to thick, and from nearly straight to gently wavy to tightly coiled curls. While most Black folks have naturally dark hair, some also have lighter shades, including brown, blonde, or red hues (Mercer, 2000; Sherrow, 2023). As noted by Oladele et al. (2024), scientists believe that the diversity in natural Black hair results from both genetic and environmental factors. One of the key functions of the dense, curly texture commonly seen in people of African descent is its ability to protect the scalp from the sun and facilitate the evaporation of sweat through better airflow (Byrd & Tharps, 2001; Sherrow, 2023). Hair that is tightly coiled and spiralled is often called kinky hair. The word kinky emerged in the nineteenth century (Online Etymology Dictionary, 2025) and was originally used in a pejorative way to devalue Black hair (Henning et al., 2022). Sherrow (2023) notes that about 75 percent of Black folks have tightly coiled and spiralled hair that is described as kinky. If you run your fingers down a strand of kinky hair, you may feel bumps on the strand with sharp angles 3 Black hair is used in this paper to refer to the hair of Black people, not hair colour. 2 “Black” is used in this manuscript for people of African descent. The terms “Black people” and “people of African descent” are used interchangeably throughout this research. 3 like the letter “Z” (Lilly, 2008). To remove the natural curls, coils, bumps, and kinks from Black hair, people often use hair straightening techniques like chemicals or heat to achieve a straighter look (Sherrow, 2023) (see Figure 1.2). Numerous sources, including Banks (2023), Byrd and Tharp (2014), and James-Gallaway et al. (2023), point to racism as the main reason Black people remove the kinks from their hair. Ever since the advent of Western colonization and the Transatlantic Slave Trade, Black folks have faced discrimination based on their natural hair. Sherrow (2023) notes that standards of appearance have historically valorized features associated with Northern European ancestry and “whiteness” — i.e., lighter skin tones and hair textures that are straighter, smoother, or loosely curled. Therefore, when Marcus Garvey implored Black people to remove the kinks from their minds instead of their hair, he wanted Black people to reject Eurocentric standards of appearance and rid their minds of colonial influences. Figure 1.2 Photo Showing Kinky vs Straight Hair Note. A girl shows her hair in its natural state on one side and straightened on the other. Source. Brenda Mang, 2017 - YouTube 4 Almost a century after Garvey made this statement, Black natural hair remains a site of discrimination, as schools in Jamaica continue to enforce grooming policies that restrict Black natural hair and ban certain natural styles. Notably, in 2020, Jamaica’s high court ruled that a school had the legal right to ban a five-year-old child from entering the school because she wore the dreadlocks hairstyle (Elassar, 2020). According to The Gleaner (2020), the case began in 2018 after the five-year-old girl was barred from classes. The school had an unwritten policy of “no braids, no beads, no locs.” The primary (kindergarten) school she was enrolled in told her parents she would not be permitted to enter the school campus without cutting her hair (see Figure 1.3). The child’s parents insisted they would not cut her hair and took the matter to court. Official court documents chronicle the arguments presented in the case of Virgo v. Board of Management of Kensington Primary School, where the 5-year-old girl, identified as ZV, was the complainant (see Supreme Court, 2020). Because the case involved the rights of a child, it fell under the responsibility of the Office of the Children’s Advocate (OCA), as outlined in section 14(1) of the Child Care and Protection Act. The OCA, represented by Shamsi Green, intervened on ZV’s behalf. Green challenged the school policy that prohibited students with dreadlocks from attending, arguing that it infringed on several of her rights under the Charter of Fundamental Rights and Freedoms, including freedom of expression, equality, humane treatment, respect for family life and privacy, and due process. Green asserted that keeping dreadlocks was not misconduct and that the powers given to the Ministry of Education to regulate school discipline should not extend to regulating personal religious expressions like dreadlocks. Furthermore, they argued that the policy was discriminatory, as it allowed other hairstyles but excluded braids, beads, and dreadlocks, thus violating ZV’s right to equitable and humane treatment. 5 In response, the school argued that the policy was not a law and, therefore, did not involve the right to equality before the law. It also contended that the attorney had failed to provide sufficient evidence that ZV was treated differently from other students with similar circumstances. The Court, led by Judge Sonia Bertram Linton, found that the policy was not a law, thus, not infringing on ZV’s right to equality before the law. Regarding ZV’s right to education, the Court concluded that the policy’s hygiene-related aims were legitimate and that ZV’s right to education had not been infringed, as she could attend another school that allowed dreadlocks. In the end, the Court upheld the school’s policy, finding no violation of ZV’s rights and denying the request to allow ZV to attend Kensington Primary School. According to The Gleaner, ZV’s parents took the matter to the Court of Appeal, where, in 2024, the judge overturned the decision of the Supreme Court. The ruling states that ZV’s constitutional rights to freedom of expression had been breached (The Court of Appeal, 2024). Figure 1.3 Photo of ZV Wearing Locs Note. ZV is a 5-year-old Jamaican student who was denied entry into school for wearing locs. Source. Pryce, 2020 - Caribbean Life. 6 At the center of the Virgo v. Board of Management of Kensington Primary School case is the dreadlock hairstyle, also known as “locs” or “dreads.” Although dreadlocks have been worn for centuries in ancient civilizations such as Kemet (Egypt) and Abyssinia (Ethiopia), they are now most closely associated with Jamaican cultural identity, particularly through the rise of the Rastafari Movement in the 1930s (Sherrow, 2023). Bob Marley, one of Jamaica’s most iconic figures, wore dreadlocks as part of his Rastafari faith. Today, the hairstyle, along with other Rasta symbols, is widely used in souvenirs to represent Jamaica. Yet despite this cultural commodification and representation globally, students continue to be barred from schools for wearing dreadlocks. This contradiction on the part of the state raises serious questions about cultural acceptance, identity, and institutional authority. The dreadlocks hairstyle is not the only one under scrutiny, as restrictions on Black natural hair and natural hairdos such as Afro and Bantu knots have also sparked public outcry. What is most concerning about these policies is that they often pressure Black girls to alter the natural texture of their hair. This disproportionately affects the majority of the student population in a country where 76.3 percent are of African descent and another 18.3% are mixed-race with African heritage (Jamaica | The University of the West Indies, 2025). A particularly noteworthy incident at a prominent high school demonstrates this point. The school’s principal faced criticism for banning Chiney bumps/Bantu knots – a natural hairstyle deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of the Zulu people of southern Africa. The principal described the hairstyle as “dramatic” and “elaborate,” yet permits students to wear straight hair extensions/artificial hair with a “natural appearance” (Korney, 2021). It is deeply troubling that straight artificial hair can appear natural on Black girls, even though straight hair is not typically a natural texture for Black folks, but natural hair is treated as a problem. This example sheds light on how contradictory 7 school hair grooming policies can be. They are often imposed on Black students by Black authorities in a discriminatory manner, hence the ongoing public debate about school hair policies. Another notable incident that sparked public outrage and garnered the attention of the government occurred in 2017. A student was held down by three teachers and forcibly trimmed at a high school. As reported by Loop Jamaica News (2017), many people took to social media to question the logic behind the rules, with some folks stating that the “rules have outlived their relevance.” The public called on the Ministry of Education to create a national policy on hair and grooming to remove archaic rules and protect children from discrimination. Instead of heeding the cries of the citizens to create a national policy, the Education Ministry decided to create a “policy guideline,” which meant that schools would have the flexibility to create their own policies using the guidelines set out by the Ministry. The Education Minister shared his statement with The Gleaner: “The ministry is going to give guidelines that you must go through a process that is legal and constitutional, and each school will have the flexibility to make the determination as to what the height of your hair should be etc… However, once it [the individual school rule] has been so established, it becomes the rule of the school, and the sanctions are to be also explicit. Indeed, you are to be very clear ... even providing graphical representation as to what the hairstyle is to be.” - Ruel Reid, Minister of Education, Jamaica, 2017 The Minister’s remarks suggest that the primary aim of the guideline is to ensure that school rules are legally sound. By setting the guidelines and allowing schools to make their own policy, the Ministry distances itself from the school rules and shifts the burden of accountability onto schools should legal disputes arise. In August 2018, the Ministry of Education released its policy guideline titled “Student Dress and Grooming: Guidance for Public Educational Institutions.” The Ministry aimed to provide a framework for individual schools to develop their own grooming policies. As stated in 8 the document, the guideline was underpinned by five key principles: the rules must be rights-based and non-discriminatory; promote safety, health, and well-being; reflect moderation, reasonableness, and rationality; be practical and affordable; and foster positive values and attitudes. The document covered various aspects of dress and grooming, including uniforms, outerwear, accessories, and hair. However, while the Ministry intended for schools to create tailored policies for their own use, the guidelines fell short on specific directions regarding hair. The document acknowledged the complex, culturally sensitive, and emotive nature of Black natural hair and school hair grooming policies but refrained from providing explicit guidance on what hairstyles would be deemed discriminatory. In fact, the 48-page document does not mention any specific hairstyle that should be banned or permitted. Toward the end of the document, some sample rules are provided. These sample rules include: ● Hair shall be clean and neatly maintained ● Short hair evenly graded around the head, that is, using a guide comb or blade [specify number range], between [“x” mm to “x” mm] ● The following hairstyles are not permitted: ○ no fashion trends (as defined) including: [specify]; ○ no shaved sides or patterns or lines; ○ no beads or similar accessories; ○ no hairstyles affiliated with known gangs or anti-social cliques or groups. (Ministry of Education, Youth & Information, 2018, p. 38-39) While the Ministry of Education attempted to create a framework for schools, it failed to address the specific banning of natural hairstyles, such as Afros, locs, or Bantu knots. In the document, the Ministry acknowledges the historical legacy of colonialism, which created a “preference for lighter skin colour and straighter hair textures” (p. 13) but fails to provide any concrete guidance on how schools can prevent discrimination based on hair texture. Rather than outright condemning discriminatory practices, the Ministry takes a softer approach, merely encouraging schools to “overcome these challenges” (p. 13), leaving the issue inadequately addressed. This vagueness opens the door for inconsistent enforcement of hair grooming policies 9 across schools. It also absolves the Ministry of Education from being blamed, and protects the Ministry from legal repercussions. Furthermore, the Ministry’s stance that individual schools have the “final word in their application” (Serju, 2017, para.1) further undermines the document’s effectiveness. The justification for this flexibility is that each school operates within its own unique context (Ministry of Education, Youth & Information, 2018, p. 2). This allows schools to make subjective decisions about hair grooming without being held to consistent or equitable standards. In essence, the Ministry’s policy guideline is meant to “empower” schools to develop their own dress and grooming policies, but this approach has inadvertently maintained the status quo, permitting the continued exclusion of students based on their natural hair. This is evident as the ongoing issue of hair discrimination continues to surface in the media, with photos circulating of students standing at the gates of their schools or restyling their hair after being denied entry (see Figures 1.4 and 1.5). One parent, speaking to The Gleaner, asked a pertinent question: “Are we saying that your hair is a passport to access education? 10 Figure 1.4 Photo from News Media Note. A Jamaican student and school personnel assist another student with removing beads from the girl’s hair before she can be allowed in class. Source. Jamaicans OVA YAH SUH, 2022 - Facebook Figure 1.5 Photo of Students Locked Out of School Note. Students linger outside the school gate, barred from classes for inappropriate grooming. Source. Hutchinson, 2023 - Daily Observer (Jamaica) 11 molasses, with Africans enslaved and transported to Jamaica to provide labour on these plantations (Jamaica Information Service, 2025). The enslaved population received full emancipation in 1838, but Jamaica remained a British colony until it achieved political independence in 1962 (Jamaica Information Service, 2025). Jamaica’s formal education system has been shaped by its British colonial history. The education system established during the British colonial period was developed to serve the white elites (Miller & Monroe, 2014; Thomas-Brown, 2021). While the island’s wealthy white settlers would send their children to boarding school in Britain, Miller & Monroe (2014) note that some planters believed the poor white boys needed to be educated to support the plantation system. Miller & Monroe (2014) explain that white planters bequeathed funds through their wills to establish schools to educate poor white boys. Notable institutions such as Wolmer’s Boys School (1729), St. Jago (1744), and Titchfield (1786) were established through bequests and continue to operate today. As Miller and Monroe (2014) assert, these schools are regarded as the “nucleus of the so-called prestigious traditional high schools” to which families from all social strata now aspire to send their children (p. 222). In the late 18th century, according to Thomas-Brown (2021), the Anglican Church began to establish schools catering primarily to white boys. Over time, however, the admission policies gradually expanded to include Jewish and mixed-race boys, albeit under “certain conditions” (Miller & Monroe, 2014, p. 222). By the end of the 18th century, some schools began to admit white girls. Miller & Monroe (2014) explain that education during slavery was primarily a tool to maintain the racial, gender, and class hierarchical structures, training different groups of people for specific roles in the plantation economy. As Thomas-Brown (2021) illustrates, girls predominantly received training in domestic skills, and boys were prepared for roles in 18 agriculture and estate management. After the emancipation of enslaved Africans in 1838, missionaries took the lead in developing elementary education for the freed population (Miller & Monroe, 2014; Thomas-Brown, 2021). According to Thomas-Brown (2021), these schools sought to integrate the former slaves into the colonial economy, often with a curriculum designed to create a compliant, lower-class workforce. By the 1860s, the colonial government assumed control over these missionary-run schools (Miller & Monroe, 2014; Thomas-Brown, 2021). This shift was largely in response to the Morant Bay Rebellion of 1865, an uprising in which the Black Jamaican population clashed with colonial authorities over poor living conditions and lack of political rights (Baldeosingh & Mahase, 2011). Thomas-Brown notes that not much had changed, as the government’s educational policy emphasized basic literacy and numeracy to prepare the Black masses for low-skilled labour in agriculture. Upon gaining independence in 1962, Jamaica inherited an education system that was shaped by British colonial practices (Bourne & Owen-Wright, 2018; Miller, 1999; Miller & Monroe, 2014; Thomas-Brown, 2021). While political sovereignty was achieved, the educational system continued to reflect colonial values and goals, including its focus on academic subjects that prepared the Black working-class population for low-level roles in the colonial economy (Bourne & Owen-Wright, 2018). According to Miller (1999), significant reforms to the Jamaican education system did not occur until the 1970s under the leadership of Prime Minister Michael Manley. In 1972, the government introduced the Free Education Plan (FEP), which sought to provide all Jamaican children with access to free education regardless of their socioeconomic background (Bourne & Owen-Wright, 2018; Miller, 1999; Miller & Monroe, 2014; Thomas-Brown, 2021). Despite these reforms, Owen-Wright (2015) contends that Jamaica’s education system continues to bear the marks of its colonial past. The structures and curricula of 19 the system replicate the British educational model (Owen-Wright, 2015). Furthermore, as Morrison and Milner (1995) assert, educational reform in Jamaica involved modifying existing structures rather than creating a new structure that would better meet the needs of the masses. They argue that achieving meaningful reform requires addressing the enduring inequalities that remain deeply embedded within the system. Today, Jamaica’s education system is overseen by the Ministry of Education, Skills, Youth, and Information (MoESYI), with the guiding motto “Every child can learn; every child must learn” (Ministry of Education, Skills, Youth & Information, 2025). The Ministry is responsible for setting educational policies, monitoring school performances, and managing the overall development of education and education reform for all public educational institutions across the island (Ministry of Education, Skills, Youth & Information, 2025). The system is structured into four levels: early childhood, primary, secondary, and tertiary education. According to the Jamaican Education Transformation Commission (2022), the education system is one of the largest institutions in the country, employing over 25,000 teachers who educate approximately 580,000 students across more than one thousand schools. Jamaica boasts one of the highest pre-primary enrollment rates globally, with 93.4 percent of children aged 3 to 5 enrolled in school (Jamaican Education Transformation Commission, 2022, p. 11). The United Nations (2010) reports a 98 percent attendance rate for Jamaican secondary schools. However, despite these positive indicators, the United Nations (2010) highlights that the country still faces challenges related to educational quality, resources, and achieving equity. 20 2.3 Historicizing Black Hair 2.3.1 Black Hair Glory: Hair in Pre-Colonial African Societies The story of Black hair traces its roots to the cradle of civilization - Africa. According to Johnson and Bankhead (2013), hair has held profound spiritual, social, cultural, and aesthetic significance for African people throughout history, from the ancient Nile Valley civilizations to the rise of Western African empires. Characterized by tight coils and spring-like curls, Black hair has been artistically moulded and sculpted in various forms, giving rise to unique hairstyles that are inseparable from Black people’s identity, culture, and history (Byrd & Tharps, 2014; Sherrow, 2023). Stone Age rock paintings and clay sculptures stand as testaments to the cultural importance of Black hair. Sherrow (2023) states that images of women with cornrowed hair dating as far back as ca. 3000 BCE were found in Africa’s Sahara Desert (p. 127). There are Nigerian clay sculptures from 500 BCE depicting people from the Nok civilization adorned with various braided hairstyles (see Figures 2.1 and 2.2). These artifacts illustrate the diversity and richness of hairstyling traditions in African cultures. 21 Figure 2.1 Terracotta Artifact Shows Hairstyle Note. Terracotta artifact from the Nok Civilization depicting a detailed hairstyle, dated between 500 BCE and 200 CE. Source. Think Africa, 2018. Figure 2.2 Nok Civilization Artifact Shows Hairstyle Note. “The Nok civilisation was bordered by the region of modern-day Niger to the north, Markudi town to the south, Benin to the west, and Yola town in the East.” Source. Think Africa, 2018. For pre-colonial African societies, hair was not just a fashion statement; in fact, hair played a significant role in the language and communication systems of various African cultures. Byrd & Tharps (2014) explain that the Wolof, Mende, Mandingo, and Yoruba people utilized hairstyles as a means to convey messages. A hairstyle could indicate a person's family background, tribe, age, or marital status (Banks, 2021). The Ifari Apakan, a half-shaved head hairstyle, was worn by the Aresa household, particularly those already initiated in the art of medicine and herbs (Agwuele, 2016). Warriors among the Fulani, Wolof, Serer in Mauritania, and Mandinka in Mali wore cornrows in their youth and dreadlocks in old age (Johnson & Bankhead, 2013). As Byrd & Tharps (2014) note, a young Wolof girl during the Medieval 22 African period (12th/13th century) would partially shave her head to point out that she was not of marrying age. A Wolof warrior would wear a particular hairstyle to show that he was about to go to war, and a widow would leave her hair unattended to show that she was mourning (Byrd & Tharps, 2014). The diversity and significance of the hairstyles were handed down through the matriarchs of each generation, with mothers teaching their daughters to style their hair from a young age (Byrd & Tharps, 2014). Hair was also said to have spiritual significance in many African societies. For tribes like the Yoruba, Wolof, and Cameroon, a person’s spirit was believed to reside in their hair (Byrd & Tharps, 2014). The Yoruba people referred to humanity as “the species that grows hair mainly on the head” (Sieber & Herreman, 2000, p. 95). Respect for hair among the Yoruba community is evident from a young age. Agwuele (2016) explains a Yoruba traditional belief that states that children born with knotted hair are considered a blessing from god and are accorded much respect. These children, called Dada, were viewed as mysterious, gods, kings, and powerful spiritual beings (Agwuele, 2016). According to Byrd and Tharps (2014), Yoruba traditions say that because the hair is the closest to the heavens, communication from the gods was passed through the hair to get to the soul. The hair was thought to be so powerful that even a single strand could be used to cast spells (Byrd and Tharps, 2014). To protect their healing portions from spells and to add potency to them, medicine men in Cameroon adorned their vessels with human hair (Byrd and Tharps, 2014). According to Sherrow (2023), hairdressers held considerable importance in African societies due to the spiritual significance of hair. Sieber and Herreman (2000) describe how hairdressing was typically carried out by trusted friends or family members. This is because if an enemy gets hold of one’s hair, it could be used to create a charm that would harm the owner (p. 23 67). Byrd and Tharps (2014) note that for the Yoruba people, everyone was taught to braid hair, and hair-braiding sessions were a time of bonding and fellowship. The comb played a key role in creating, decorating, and maintaining hairstyles in pre-colonial African societies. According to Byrd & Tharps (2014), skilled hairdressers relied on hand-carved wooden combs, specifically designed with long teeth and rounded tips to detangle hair without causing discomfort. Sherrow (2023) explains that combs made from ivory were popular among the Bavarians and Amarateans - two groups of people who lived in predynastic Egypt. The Fitzwilliam Museum in England showcases a variety of Afro-combs dating back as far as 6000 years ago (see Figures 2.3 and 2.4). The combs flaunt exquisite carvings with geometric designs, and some with multi-coloured glass beads. The decorative motifs on comb handles often symbolized a person’s status or cultural identity, featuring human figures, natural elements, and spiritual artwork (African Combs, 2025). Elaborate combs were often exchanged as gifts to commemorate significant life events, including puberty celebrations, weddings, and births (Tribal Art Muse, 2023). According to Byrd and Tharps (2014), before a skilled hairdresser passed away, she would give her box of hair tools to someone in her family who would take over her work. This handover took place during a special ceremony. 24 Figure 2.3 Ancient African Comb Note. Afro-comb on display at the Fitzwilliam Museum in England. Source. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, 2025 Figure 2.4 Ashanti Wooden Comb Note. Carved wooden comb from the Ashanti people of Ghana. Source. Art Zimbabwe, 2025 Byrd & Tharps (2014) describe hair grooming in pre-colonial African societies as a meticulous process with various steps such as washing, combing, oiling, braiding, and twisting. According to Sherow (2003), animal fats, plants, and minerals were used to style Black hair in ancient times. Palm oil, Sherrow (2023) notes, is known for its moisturizing properties and was commonly used to nourish and style hair. The hair was decorated with adornments such as beads, feathers, shells, flowers, wood, coins, or strips of material woven into the hair (Davidson, 2020; Sherrow, 2023). These accessories contributed to the overall hairstyles and sometimes signified a person’s social rank, occupation, age and other traits. Furthermore, Chico (2013) observes that headwraps, crowns, and diadems were worn for daily and ceremonial uses. Ancient rock paintings dating back to ca. 10,000 to ca. 6,000 BCE depict archers and dancers wearing headpieces similar to those still worn in northern Ghana today (Chico, 2013, p. 8). In Egypt, “members of the royal family wore special head coverings, and the pharaoh wore a crown, 25 helmet, or a folded cloth kerchief” (Sherrow, 2014, p. 260). The Benin people usually covered their hair with head wraps only when it was not styled, but it was rare for someone to leave their hair unstyled. For many African tribes, Byrd & Tharps note, the hair was their “crowning glory,” and nothing was meant to hide it. Hair grooming and stylization have long been integral to African cultural life and were sources of beauty and pride (DeLongoria, 2018; Johnson & Bankhead, 2013; Mercer, 2000; Sherrow, 2023). According to Johnson & Bankhead (2013), Black hairstyles have historically been complex and multifaceted, known for their artistic and symbolic qualities (see Figure 2.5). However, with the advent of Western colonization, these positive cultural associations and intricate practices surrounding Black hair were disrupted (Byrd & Tharps, 2014; Johnson & Bankhead, 2013; Ngandu‐Kalenga Greensword, 2022). Figure 2.5 Precolonial African Hairstyles Note. Precolonial African hairstyles are replicated, showing a range of braids, twists, and sculpted patterns. Source. folukeifejola, 2017 26 2.3.2 Colonial Oppression and Racial Resistance: Black Hair During Slavery Sylvia Wynter, a prominent anti-colonial scholar hailing from Jamaica, centers the Columbian encounter of 1492 as being vital to the formulation of what is “normal” and what is deemed as the “other.” Through this encounter, a system of categorization emerged in the “New World,” wherein a version of humanness confined to the Western bourgeois archetype was constructed and imposed upon non-Europeans. This system disqualified Africans from humanness (Wynter, 2003), and race became a distinctive means of organizing a worldview necessary to justify the social, political, and economic order of colonialism (Césaire, 2023; Hall, 1980; McKittrick, 2015). The false notion that whiteness represented the standard of true beauty while condemning Black people to “eternal ugliness” was used to justify the racist construction of European superiority and African inferiority (Mercer, 1987, pp. 35-36). There is no evidence of Black hair being devalorized prior to colonization. As Johnson and Bankhead (2014) note, colonialism brought about a new phenomenon: “for the first time in history, African beauty, body and hair, was racialized, and European features became the accepted standard of beauty” (p.88). The othering of Black bodies has been hegemonically forged and reinforced through dehumanization and violence (Banks, 2021; Johnson & Bankhead, 2014; Ngandu‐Kalenga Greensword, 2022;). In his seminal work, Capitalism and Slavery, Eric Williams (1944) illustrates how the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade was one of the most gruesome acts of violence recorded in history, implemented by the European colonists to feed their sadistic need for domination and economic exploitation. Byrd and Tharps (2014) point out that one of the first things the enslavers did to the African people was shave their heads (p. 10). While the colonizers claimed sanitary reasons for shaving the heads of enslaved people, scholars widely 27 2.3.4 Victorian Ideals and Respectability Politics: Post-Emancipation Era Throughout Queen Victoria’s reign (1837-1901), Victorian ideals of beauty permeated global perceptions of femininity and aesthetics, shaping grooming practices in Jamaica under British colonial rule (Block, 2011; Buckridge, 2018). Sherrow (2023) explains that the Victorian ideals emphasized long, meticulously groomed hair as a symbol of femininity and virtue. Block (2011) describes the Victorian era as one fascinated by women’s long hair with pinned-up hairstyles. Long hair was viewed as being ultra-feminine and desirable, but a respectable woman would not wear her hair loose in public. Loose hairstyles were frowned upon and associated with negative connotations such as seduction and amorality, prompting women to adhere to disciplined hairdos to maintain respectability (Block, 2011). The overarching principle was that women's hair should exude order and control, mirroring the societal expectations of women of that era. Sherrow (2023) further illustrates the Victorian emphasis on cleanliness and the appearance of healthy hair reflected broader societal values. Sherrow (2023) notes that women, especially those from the upper and middle classes, were expected to dedicate significant effort to daily hair grooming routines to achieve the desired polished look. Block (2011) elaborates on the meticulous nature of Victorian hairstyling, where every tress was carefully pinned up to avoid any stray strands. Women would even avoid movements or activities that could loosen their hairdo. Harris (2015) explains that the use of fake hairpieces was common to enhance volume and create more elaborate hairstyles. Victorian gender ideology permeated Jamaican society through various channels, including newspapers, which disseminated letters, articles, and reports of speeches reflecting Victorian norms (Brereton, 2013). Debates in publications like the Daily Gleaner newspaper in 34 1904, as highlighted by scholars Moore and Johnson (2000), underscored discussions on gender, respectability, fashion, hair grooming, and proper wifehood, reinforcing Victorian values. The influence of Victorian ideals extended beyond media representations into educational institutions, serving as another avenue for hegemonic imposition. Jeffery (1980) points out that schools in Jamaica, particularly before 1865, primarily catered to white families, and the school curriculum in the periods prior to 1865 served to transmit the ideology of the bourgeois class. This means that schools were intended to reinforce Victorian ideals, which included hair grooming standards. According to Jamaican historian Steve Buckridge, many colonial subjects in Jamaica believed that adopting Victorian ideals of beauty and dress was a key way to improve their status. At the time, many people in Victorian England were able to use Victorian dress and grooming to acquire upward mobility. Many Jamaicans were also hoping that conformity would bring them the same (Buckridge, 2018). In the mid-1880s, as Buckridge notes, women from the Jamaican bourgeoisie, such as the governor’s wife (see Figure 2.7), set the fashion trends, including clothing and hairstyles, which were then copied by other women in the upper and middle classes. Buckridge states that the new trend of mimicking Victorian hair and fashion allowed Jamaicans the opportunity to show that they, too, could embody elegance, beauty, and respectability within the colonial system. For many Black Jamaicans in those days, upholding Victorian ideals was an arduous task. According to Buckridge (2018), while many colonial subjects saw conforming to Victorian standards of beauty, dress, and hair grooming practices as a pathway to social mobility, the cost of Victorian clothing and hairdos was often too high for most Afro-Jamaicans. He also explains that the dress and grooming norms of the Victorian era did not suit the active lifestyle of the 35 lower-class Jamaican population, who needed functional attire and hairdos for their daily activities. According to Buckridge, many Afro-Jamaicans adopted the Victorian styles, blending them with local traditions to reflect their unique aesthetic sensibilities. While they would wear functional clothes in their everyday life (see Figure 2.8), they wore their adaptation of Victorian styles – what became known as “Sunday Best” – to church or on special occasions. Buckridge also points out that many lower-class Jamaicans were not interested in imitating European clothing and hairstyles simply to climb the social ladder; some actively rejected the idea of adopting European norms as a form of anti-colonial resistance. “Afro-Jamaicans who did not observe these new standards were relegated by the normative taste of the period to the realm of the ‘uncivilized’” (Buckridge, 2018, p. 577). Figure 2.7 Victorian Fashion in Jamaica Note. Lady Musgrave, wife of Sir Anthony Musgrave, the Governor of Jamaica from 1877-1883. Known for her fashion trends and feminist work in Jamaica at the time. In the photo, she sports a pinned-up hairdo, fitting the Victorian standard of meticulously groomed hair. Source. Thomas, 2020 - Daily Observer 36 Figure 2.8 Functional Attire in Victorian-Era Jamaica Note. Photo from 1891. A Jamaican woman and girl wearing functional attire, dress and hair. Source. MonoVisions Black & White Photography Magazine, 2017 2.3.5 Post-Emancipation Resistance Despite strong pressures to conform to Eurocentric beauty ideals in the post-emancipation era, people of African descent have consistently resisted and challenged these norms. Political and social movements such as the Rastafari Movement, the Black Power Movement, and the Natural Hair Movement have played significant roles in uniting the African diaspora in the ongoing fight for Black liberation. These movements challenged Eurocentric beauty norms and fostered a sense of empowerment and cultural pride among Black people worldwide. 2.3.5.1 Rastafari Movement and the Dreadlocks Hairstyle As outlined by Botchway (2018), “Rastafari started in Jamaica as an anticolonial Afrocentric spiritual and philosophical movement among the island's underprivileged people of 37 African descent in the 1930s” (p. 20). This movement was inspired by the teachings of Marcus Garvey, Jamaica’s first national hero and a Black nationalist who advocated for Black consciousness and pride during British colonial rule in Jamaica. Rastafari adheres to the teachings of Marcus Garvey, proclaiming that Black skin is not a mark of inferiority but a badge of honour and a “glorious symbol of national greatness” (Mthembu, 2011, p. 29). While colonialism relegates Black people to the sub-human category, Rastafari valorizes Blackness. Accordingly, Rastas sport their natural appearance with pride, rejecting the colonial beauty standard which celebrates straight hair, white skin, and careful grooming. For Rastas, Tate (2009) explains, “the straightening comb and chemical straighteners came to be seen as oppressive tools symbolizing the white-induced shame of natural Black hair internalized by Black women” (p. 37). Edmonds (2012) further explains that Rastas denounced Eurocentric beauty norms by cultivating their so-called ‘nappy’ hair into knotted locks that came to symbolize Rastafari (p. 44). The dreadlock hairstyle, according to Sherrow (2023), dates back to various cultures, including Egypt and Ethiopia. Therefore, dreadlocks can be seen as a connection to African ancestral roots. In addition, some Rastas believe that having dreadlocks brings them closer to Jah (God), and as such, the cutting of the hair is generally considered to be Babylonian4 (colonial) conduct (Goldson, 2020, p. 375). It is interesting to note that the earliest followers of Rastafari did not sport dreadlocks, but rather, “it was a group known as Youth Black Faith in the early 1950s who popularized the matted hair complex” (Chevannes, 1995, p. 253). According to Chevannes, dreadlocks symbolized societal outcasts, lunatics, and derelicts in Jamaican society, 4 Rastafari uses the biblical city, Babylon, to refer to any oppressive societal systems, including Western colonialism, capitalism, and racism. This reference originates from the biblical story of the Israelites’ captivity in Babylon, where they were exiled and oppressed by a foreign power (as seen in Psalms 137:1-4). The last book of the Bible, Revelation, also describes an apocalyptic collapse of Babylon. Rastas find these stories fitting to describe their experience of being ‘exiled’ outside of Africa and their hope that their oppression will come to an end. (Edmonds, 2012). 38 and by embracing this hairstyle, Rastafarians physically manifested their rejection of, and disconnection from, Eurocentric societal norms. 2.3.5.2 Black Power Movements and the Afro Hairstyle Figure 2.9 Women of the Black Panther Party with Afros Note. Black Panthers from Sacramento at a rally in 1968. Source. National Museum of African American History and Culture, n.d. The Afro, originating from the term Afro-American, denotes a hairstyle characterized by thick, tightly curled or spiralled hair forming a large, rounded shape (Sherrow, 2023, p. 25). Because of the unique characteristics of Black natural hair, the Afro hairstyle, as Sherrow (2023) explains, is “well suited to the texture of Afro-Caribbean hair and is associated with Africans, African Americans, and Black Caribbeans as a natural way to wear their hair” (p. 25). Despite its name suggesting a link between Africa, Mercer (2000) notes that the Afro is not a distinctly African hairstyle but rather one that emerged in the African diaspora. As Sherrow (2023) explains, people of African descent, such as Frederick Douglass, wore their hair in an Afro before the 1900s, but it was relatively uncommon. It was not until the 1960s that the Afro gained 39 popularity and emerged as a cultural and political symbol during the Black Power movements in the United States (Byrd and Tharp, 2021; Mercer, 2000; Tate, 2009). As written in the US National Archives (2021), “Black Power emerged as a revolutionary movement in the 1960s and 1970s, emphasizing racial pride, economic empowerment, and the establishment of political and cultural institutions.” Stemming from a response to ongoing racial discrimination, segregation, and systemic oppression faced by Black Americans, the movement aimed for the full liberation of Black people and expressed solidarity with anti-colonial and anti-imperial struggles in emerging Third World nations (Mercer, 2000, p. 39). The Black Panther Party, one of the most iconic organizations associated with the Black Power movement, adopted the Afro as part of its uniform. The Panthers were known for invoking the U.S. constitutional right to bear arms and urging Black Americans to arm themselves in self-defence against the murders, brutal beatings, and bombings of Black people by white racist police officers, the Ku Klux Klan, and others (Abron, 1986, p. 33). In addition to their militant stance, the Black Panther Party implemented community programs, including free breakfast programs for children, health clinics, and educational initiatives aimed at empowering and uplifting Black communities (The Dr Huey P. Newton Foundation, 2008). Jamaica, among other Caribbean countries, experienced Black Power uprisings during the same period as the United States. Given that the Caribbean had a majority Black population, the Black Power Movement of the 1960s in the region emerged as a protest against local governments that were largely made up of Black officials (Quinn 2014). This meant that the nature of the movement in Jamaica differed from that of the United States. In Jamaica, people were fighting against a majority Black neocolonial state for its failure to deliver meaningful liberation to the Black majority in the post-Emancipation and Independence eras (Palmer 2014; 40 Rodney, 2019; Lewis, 2014). According to Lux (1972), Black Power also evoked a search for Jamaica’s racial identity. While many privileged Jamaicans “exaggerated the degree of racial harmony” that existed and “promoted a form of Jamaican racial exceptionalism,” the Black masses who often felt the brunt of racial oppression were not convinced of a unified Jamaica (Palmer, 2014, p. 113). Radical advocates of the Caribbean Black Power Movement believed that the Black and brown middle class elites were complicit in upholding global white dominance by supporting capitalist and imperialist systems (Quinn, 2014). Black Power upheavals in Jamaica, therefore, stemmed from grassroots organizing and direct action among working-class and poor communities. While the Black Power Movement in Jamaica is often associated with the 1968 youth and student protests sparked by the government’s banning of historian and activist Walter Rodney from re-entering the country, its ideological foundations are deeply rooted in local anti-colonial movements like Garveyism and Rastafari (Lewis, 2014; Quinn, 2014). As Palmer (2014) notes, the façade of racial harmony appealed to the Black and brown elites, but it was the Rastafari brand of Black consciousness that found deeper resonance among the Black masses. Activists demanded structural transformation, including land reform, educational decolonization, and Black political representation (Lewis, 2014). On the other hand, the government along with the Black and brown elites felt that the ideas of the Black Power Movement “threatened what they perceived to be a harmonious multiracial society (Lewis, 2014, p. 71). The Black Power Movement in Jamaica was met with state repression and elite anxiety. Many activists in Jamaica were inspired by Black Power revolutionaries of the United States to wear the Afro. To them, the Afro represented more than just a fashion statement; it embodied a redefinition of Blackness and a celebration of Black pride. As Davis (1994) posits, 41 Afro radiated a sense of “revolutionary glamour” and the spirit of the movement (p. 39). While many Black communities across the globe embraced the ideals of the Black Power movement that the Afro embodied, others viewed it as reactionary, aggressive, and negative. Mercer (2000) provides compelling personal accounts illustrating this dichotomy, highlighting how churches condemned those wearing Afros, instilling fear and stigma around the hairstyle. According to Mercer, after a lifetime of believing that hair was meant to be straight, glossy, and neat, the Black church found the extremism of the Afro “unpalatable” (p. 62). This reaction encapsulates the societal norms and tensions surrounding natural Black hair and its anti-colonial stance during the era of the Black Power Movement. The historical background on Black hair provides the foundational knowledge necessary for interrogating current educational hair grooming policies and practices. Understanding the cultural, social, and political significance of Black hair throughout history sheds light on the biases and coloniality embedded in modern grooming standards. Now, I will turn my attention to more recent research on school hair grooming policies. I will use a thematic approach to discuss the findings of recent empirical studies on hair discrimination in schools. 2.4 Previous Research on School Hair Grooming Policies A review of previous research on hair discrimination in school grooming policies reveals three central themes: policy language and stigmatization, physical health impacts, and psychological effects. These themes offer important insights into how hair discrimination affects students’ experiences and overall well-being in educational settings. However, it is important to note that the studies discussed below are not based in Jamaica. They are findings from studies conducted in the United States and the United Kingdom. Despite an extensive search, I found no 42 recent peer-reviewed research specifically exploring the experiences of students with school hair grooming policies in Jamaican schools. 2.4.1 Policy Language: Stigmatization & Stereotypes School hair grooming policies are often embedded in dress and grooming codes (Anderson, 2020; Banks, 2023; Gaddy, 2020). According to Gadson & Lewis (2022), schools apply stringent rules and harsher policies toward Black girls. Some scholars, including Gaddy (2020), Joseph-Salisbury & Connelly (2018), and Nkimbeng et al. (2023), contend that although these policies do not seem racially biased, they do, in fact, target hairstyles that are unique to Black students. This is shown in the language used in the written policy and its enforcement. Hair policies are found to be underpinned with negative stereotypes that label Black natural hairstyles as “unprofessional,” “unusual,” “unkempt,” “extreme,” or “distracting” (Anderson, 2020; Banks, 2023; Donahoo & Smith, 2022; Nkimbeng et al, 2023; O’Brien-Richardson, 2019; Shauri-Webb, 2020). They reveal that students sporting natural hairstyles are stigmatized as extreme, disruptive, unclean, unkempt, and indisciplined. The hairstyles they have identified as commonly vilified are locs/dreadlocks, Bantu knots, Afros, Mohawks, fades, cornrows, and twists. Gadson & Lewis (2022) found that Black girls are expected to be “angry,” “ghetto,” and “promiscuous.” Gadson & Lewis (2022) explain that these imposed stereotypes and labels lead to Black students being overpoliced and underprotected in school. As O’Brien-Richardson (2019) notes, some students feel pressured to straighten their hair to reduce the likelihood of being negatively labelled. James-Gallaway et al. (2023) explain that Black hair in its natural state tends to be curly or coily and, therefore, does not conform to Eurocentric beauty standards that 43 Chapter 3 Research Methods and Methodology 3.1 Research Design and Methodology This study employed a qualitative research design to explore the experiences of Black girls who wear natural hairstyles at Sankofa High School in Jamaica (pseudonym). A qualitative approach was particularly suited to this research because it allowed for deeper insight into the topic, capturing the complexities of lived experiences that could not be easily quantified. As Tenny et al. (2017) highlight, qualitative research focuses on understanding the hows and whys rather than just the whats or how many, making it ideal for uncovering the diverse perspectives of Black girls as they navigate societal and institutional norms surrounding their natural hairstyles. Malik (2000) further describes qualitative research as a holistic approach that emphasizes understanding the perspectives and experiences of the participants in their natural settings. This allows the research to account for social, cultural, and institutional contexts that shape their experiences. By doing so, the research can “capture, inscribe, and re-present” the authentic voices of the participants (Denzin & Schratz, 1995, p. 313). As a researcher who has intimate knowledge of the Jamaican school context as a student, and later in life as a teacher, positioning myself in relation to this work is vitally important because the methodological approach is deeply ingrained in my cultural framework. From childhood, I was immersed in the stories shared by my grandparents and community elders, whose narratives were laden with memories, hope, and life lessons. In school, we, Jamaican kids, were encouraged to read and share stories with others. Storytelling was not just a form of entertainment; it has always been a foundational component of our culture, and it is through the sharing of personal narratives that we make sense of the world, communicate what really 50 matters, and keep our traditions alive. This means that the Jamaican tradition of storytelling, which includes tales about Anansi the spider and Rolin Calf the mysterious bull, shaped my upbringing and was, thus, used to amplify the voices of this study’s participants, who were girls in high school. Their stories are brought to the forefront of this research through a cultural lens that understands storytelling as a site of knowledge production, where Black girl voices are not extracted or translated as objects of research but valued and treated with an “ethic of care” and responsibility (Collins, 2022). I married my cultural and historical ways of knowing with a Black Feminist Methodology, which is grounded in storytelling and is argued to be a liberating tool for conducting research (Collins, 1991; King, 1999). Patterson et al. (2016) describe Black Feminist Methodology as a way of constructing, analyzing, and interpreting narratives that center Black women and girls’ experiences, voices, and perspectives. This methodology uses the lived realities of Black women and girls to produce scholarship that “uncovers, (re) defines, contextualizes, and validates” Black women’s realities (Neville & Hamer, 2001, p. 437). Black Feminist Methodology not only validates local epistemologies but also challenges the dominant frameworks that have long devalued Black voices and ways of knowing (Collins, 1999). Cynthia Dillard refers to Black Feminist Methodology as “Endarkened Epistemology” because it requires a break from Enlightenment philosophies (Dillard, 2000). Kynard & Pritchard (2022) explain that while Enlightenment thought, which emerged in the late 17th to 18th centuries, claimed to advance humanity through reason and progress, it also justified the atrocities of slavery and white settler colonialism. This historical contradiction is inseparable from the intellectual legacy of the Enlightenment, and it has shaped the philosophy of that era and underpins the Eurocentric research paradigms that still dominate Western scholarship today 51 (Collins, 1999; Dillard, 2000; Harding, 2023; Kynard & Pritchard, 2022). Research paradigms that are deeply entrenched in Eurocentric ways of knowing often marginalize or erase the experiences of Black women and girls (Collins, 1999; Crenshaw, 2023). As such, Black feminist research demands an intellectual shift — one that challenges these dominant frameworks and centers the lived experiences and knowledge of Black women and girls. Sadly, “a large portion of research about Black girlhood utilizes a positivistic perspective, which focuses on variables that are ‘measurable’ and ‘observable’” (Lindsay-Dennis, 2015, p. 508). Such a research approach, rooted in Western epistemologies, fails to account for the richness of individual stories, emotional depth, and the interlocking systems of oppression that shape Black girls’ lived realities. These research methods reduce human experiences to mere data points while sidelining the voices of Black girls themselves. Black Feminist Methodology, on the other hand, centers the lived experiences of Black girls and ensures that they are co-constructors of knowledge in the research process. As Lindsay-Dennis (2015) states, “The guiding premise of this perspective is that ‘academic knowledge’ and ‘everyday experiences’ should guide researchers’ theorizing about [Black] girls” (p. 508), and Black girls should have “the right to interpret their reality and define their experiences” (Taylor, 1998). Patricia Hill-Collins (2022) reminds us that experience is a “criterion of meaning” and a fundamental epistemological tenet in Black thought (p. 258). Keisha-Khan Perry (2009) also asserts that experience is the lexicon of Black women’s lives and the source of inventing new forms of solidarity. Guided by these assertions, I allowed the students’ narratives to steer the inquiry and shape the data collection and interpretation processes. In addition, I actively engaged in critical self-reflection, as necessitated by Black Feminist Methodology, recognizing how my own positionality as a researcher informed and shaped the study (Evans-Winters, 2019; Lockett et al., 52 2024; Patterson et al., 2016). By drawing on the Black Feminist approach to research, I aim to disrupt traditional research paradigms and amplify the voices of marginalized communities, allowing their perspectives to reshape how knowledge is produced and understood. 3.2 Research Site For this study, I selected Sankofa High School (pseudonym), a site that aligned with both my academic and logistical needs as a graduate student. I first identified schools that had been publicly criticized on social media and in news outlets for their policies banning or restricting natural hairstyles, as these were directly related to my research topic. Regarding the logistics, I thought about my financial constraints and access to accommodation in Jamaica. I assessed the cost of travel, the availability of affordable accommodation, and the mode of commuting to the school. After narrowing down a list of potential sites, I began reaching out to school administrations to inquire about conducting research at their institution. The first school I reached out to was Sankofa High School, and I was pleased to find that they were willing to participate in the study. Sankofa High has faced public scrutiny over its hair grooming policies, hence, it seemed to be an ideal setting for this research on the experiences of Black girls with natural hairstyles. Additionally, the school was conveniently located near family members and friends, who graciously offered me a place to stay during my field work. Sankofa High School is a co-educational secondary institution located in rural Jamaica. The school was established over a century before Jamaica gained political independence in 1962, and it has a reputation for producing top performers in the Caribbean Examinations Council (CXC) examinations, a series of standardized tests administered in high schools to assess the academic achievements of students across the Caribbean. The school has an enrollment of over 53 1,700 students across seven grade levels (Grades 7 to 13), ranging in age from 11 to 19. I focused on female students between the ages of 15 and 19 for two primary reasons. First, much of the outcry regarding the school’s hair grooming policies has been centered on female students, as most of the banned hairstyles are typically worn by girls. This made it particularly relevant to center my research on their experiences. Second, I surmised that older students – those aged 15 to 19 – would have more extensive and nuanced perspectives to offer since they would have likely spent several years at the school. These students would possibly have more experience navigating the institutional policies and would have witnessed the changes in the school’s hair grooming policy. 3.3 Sampling To recruit participants for this study, I initially sought the assistance of the guidance counsellor at Sankofa High School. The guidance counsellor informed the upper-year students (grades 10 to 12) and the student leaders of the purpose of the study, and the students were allowed to ask me clarifying questions before deciding whether to participate. Participation was voluntary and open to female students with natural hair. Those who expressed interest in participating in the study were provided with an information sheet about the study and a parental consent form to be completed by their parents or guardians (see Appendix A). A total of six students participated in the study. Two of the six participants are student leaders at Sankofa High School. The inclusion of student leaders was intentional, as they hold a unique position in the school and can bring a unique perspective. From my first-hand experience of being a student, student leader, and a teacher in Jamaica, I am aware that student leaders often serve as a bridge between the school administration and the student body, which allows them to 54 understand how school policies are perceived and enacted from both the administration’s and students’ viewpoints. Moreover, my experience as a student, student leader, and teacher has taught me that as advocates for their peers, student leaders are often privy to the stories and experiences of other students. Their role in ensuring that students follow school rules would provide a dual perspective that would be invaluable to this research and offer insight into both the enforcement and lived experiences of the policies. By including student leaders alongside other participants, this sampling strategy aimed to capture a broad spectrum of experiences and perspectives. For ethical reasons and to ensure the anonymity of participants, pseudonyms have been assigned to all individuals involved in this study. 3.4 Data Collection In line with the principles of Black Feminist Methodology, which emphasizes the importance of context, relationality, and the centrality of Black women’s lived experiences (Amoah, 1997; Clemons, 2019; Halle-Erby, 2024; Kynard & Pritchard, 2022; Lockett et al., 2024), I adopted an immersive approach during my time at Sankofa High School to better understand the experiences of Black girls wearing natural hairstyles. Rather than relying on formal interviews, I actively inserted myself into the students’ everyday lives and school environments. I spent time with students in various spaces where they naturally gathered – music rooms, under trees, in libraries, at lunch, and during unassigned class sessions. From my understanding of the culture, I knew these were the spaces where students felt most comfortable and free from judgment, allowing for open, candid conversations. By entering these spaces, I was able to engage in authentic discussions with students about their experiences with natural hair, as well as their broader lives as Black girls. This is a way to challenge the Eurocentric notion of the 55 researcher as a detached observer. I saw myself as a learner-researcher in their lived reality, engaging with students on their terms. While the students were fully aware of my goal to write my master’s thesis on natural hairstyles in schools, I left it to them to bring up the topic whenever they felt comfortable. This approach was intentional, as I wanted to move away from the rigid, structured interviews commonly used in academic research. My goal was to foster organic and authentic conversations where the students felt at ease sharing their experiences with their hair. I ensured that the students led the conversations, shared their own stories, and revealed aspects of the topic that I had not initially considered. By being present in the students’ day-to-day lives and even attending classes with them, I embraced the Black feminist understanding that knowledge production is inherently contextual and situated. Unlike the positivist approach, which tends to reduce social and cultural issues into isolated components, Black Feminist Methodology insists that these issues cannot be understood apart from the broader structural and systemic forces that shape them (Ladson-Billings, 2003). Black feminist storytelling allows Black girls to fully elaborate their stories, thus providing “culturally based perspectives that take into consideration the contextual and interactive effects of herstory culture, race, class, gender, and other forms of oppression” (Lindsay-Dennis, 2015, p. 506). At the end of each school day, I reviewed my notes to identify points that required further clarification. These daily reflections allowed me to pinpoint aspects of the stories that needed deeper exploration, which I then followed up on through dialogue with each participant. These conversations were recorded to ensure accuracy, and they provided a space to deepen my understanding of their experiences wearing natural hairstyles in school, offering participants an opportunity to elaborate on the key themes that emerged during our earlier interactions. 56 Certainly, my prior knowledge of the Jamaican culture and subjective perspective on what points were most relevant inevitably shaped some of the questions and the direction of the follow-up conversations. This is antithetical to Eurocentric research paradigms that insist on maintaining an objective separation between the researcher and the researched, positioning the “power-bearing researcher” as a detached outsider and the participant as the “objectified” Other (Lindsay-Dennis, 2015, p. 507). In contrast, Black Feminist Methodology encourages a more engaged and passionate research process, where the researcher’s cultural lens and lived experiences are not sidelined in the name of objectivity or credibility (Lindsay-Dennis, 2015, p. 512). As a learner-researcher, my introspection, intuition, and passion are not separate from the research process – they are integral to how I engage with and interpret the lived experiences of the students sharing their stories. 3.5 Data Analysis With parental consent, the conversations with the students were recorded to ensure accuracy in capturing the stories. The data was stored on an encrypted hard drive, and I used Otter AI transcription software to transcribe the audio. However, recognizing that the software does not reliably detect Jamaican Patois, I carefully reviewed the audio recordings and edited the transcriptions to ensure they reflected the true content and linguistic subtleties of the conversations. I read through the transcriptions and listened to the audio recordings several times to familiarize myself with the content, highlighting segments that stood out and making notes of recurring themes. I engaged in a process of open coding, where I broke down the stories into meaningful parts, attaching descriptive labels that captured the essence of the salient points. 57 Next, I employed a process of axial coding to connect these themes, looking for relationships between them and grouping them into broader categories. Finally, I used selective coding to identify the central themes that unified the categories. Throughout the research process, I applied a lens of reflexivity, constantly considering how my positionality as a Jamaican woman with lived experience in the educational system influenced the analysis. According to Hesse-Biber (2013), “reflexivity is the process through which the researcher recognizes, examines, and understands how his or her own social background and assumptions can intervene in the research process” (p. 200). I kept a reflective journal to document my thoughts, biases, and insights during the analysis process to ensure that the participants’ voices remained central to the findings. I also utilized the WPR (What’s the Problem Represented to be?) approach to analyze the school’s policy document and the stories revealed by the participants. I will discuss the WPR method in the next section. 3.6 What’s the Problem Represented to be? - WPR Method 3.6.1 What is the WPR Method? In this research, I apply the WPR methodology to analyze the Sankofa High School hair grooming policy document and the stories shared by the students participating in the study. The WPR (What’s the Problem Represented to be?) method is a critical approach to policy analysis developed by Professor Emerita Carol Bacchi from the Department of Politics & International Studies, University of Adelaide (Adelaide Graduate Research School, n.d). Bacchi (2009) contends that, unlike traditional policy analysis, which assumes that public policies are simply responses to external, pre-existing problems, the WPR method challenges this assumption. 58 Bacchi’s framework focuses on how policies shape or “problematize” issues, revealing how problems are constructed (Bacchi, 2009; 2019a; Bletsas, 2012). The WPR approach calls on us to fundamentally shift how we think about the relationship between policies and the problems they claim to ‘solve’ (Bacchi, 2009; Bletsas, 2012). Bacchi (1999) argues that rather than seeing problems as fixed and external to the policy process, policies themselves define and shape what is considered a problem. This shift in perspective opens up critical spaces for questioning the assumptions embedded within policy frameworks and examining the social, political, and ideological forces that influence policy decisions. I will give an overview of the theoretical foundations of the WPR approach before describing how the approach will be employed in its methodological form to discuss the findings of this research on school hair grooming policies. 3.6.2 The WPR Questions Carol Bacchi first introduced the WPR method in her 1999 work, Women, Policy and Politics: The Construction of Policy Problems, where she sought to explore how policy interventions addressing women’s inequality have been framed in Western societies. Bacchi (2009) explains that the WPR method was influenced by Michel Foucault’s concepts of discourse and problematization. Drawing on the work of Foucault, Bacchi (1999) describes policy as a form of discourse grounded in the assumption that all actions, objects, and practices carry social meanings. These meanings, Bacchi (1999) argues, are shaped by the political and social struggles occurring within specific historical and cultural contexts. Therefore, policy must be seen as a cultural product, always “context-specific” (Goodwin, 2012, p. 29). Bacchi argues that policy discourses are practices that not only have real-world effects, such as shaping the identities and subjectivities of individuals, but also impose limits on what can be said, thought, or 59 4.1.1 The “Colonial” in Anti-Colonial Discursive Framework The term “colonial” is derived from “colony,” which Merriam-Webster Dictionary (2024) defines as “an area over which a foreign nation or state extends or maintains control.” Colonization, then, refers to the act of one group asserting dominance over the land, resources, languages, cultures, and relationships of another (Attas, 2024). This process is not a modern phenomenon; in fact, history is replete with examples of foreign powers imposing dominance over other nations. However, colonialism is not merely about direct territorial control; it is a far-reaching system of domination that encompasses the systematic subjugation and exploitation of local populations, their resources, and their knowledge systems (Dei & Lordan, 2016; Kohn & Reddy, 2006; Krishna, 2018; Sartre, 2001). Loomba (2002) notes that while colonialism took different forms in various regions, it always resulted in complex and traumatic interactions between indigenous peoples and colonizers. In this context, the anti-colonial perspective critically examines any situation involving imposition or dominance (Kempf, 2006). This is especially relevant in Jamaica, where European colonization and Western colonialism played a major role in shaping the nation's history. The Spaniards were the first known Europeans to arrive in the Caribbean in 1492, and they found their way to Jamaica in 1494 (Baldeosingh & Mahase, 2011). Their encounter with the indigenous inhabitants of the Caribbean region marked the beginning of European colonization in the Americas. This meeting set the stage for a brutal colonial process that would dramatically reshape the global social order. Sylvia Wynter and many other anti-colonial scholars (Aimé Césaire, C.L.R. James, Frantz Fanon, and so forth) contend that the 1492 encounter marked “the invention of the modern/colonial Other” (Mignolo, 2015, p. 111). It played a crucial 66 role in the construction of race, identity, and power relations in the modern world. Wynter (1995) calls us to ponder: “How… is the 1492 event to be perceived? Should it be seen from the celebrant perspective - as a “glorious achievement,” a “heroic and daring deed” of discovery and exploration, a triumph for the Christian West that was to liberate the indigenous peoples from their Stone Age, deprived existence without the wheel (Hart, 1991)? Or, is it to be seen from the dissident perspective - as one of “history’s monumental crimes,” a brutal invasion and conquest that led to a degree of genocidal extinction and of still ongoing ecological disaster unprecedented in human history?” (Wynter, 1995, p. 5-6). Western colonialism brought about the creation of racial hierarchies that served to legitimize the exploitation, annihilation, and dehumanization of indigenous populations. The Europeans devised mechanisms that portrayed the European man as superior and their expropriation and dehumanization of indigenous people as not only a fact but a divine mandate. C.W. Mills (1997) explains that the creation of the Requerimiento, a document read to the Amerindians in a language they did not understand, which states that Christ entrusted the lands of the Americas to the Pope, is an example of how Europeans used falsely constructed religious and political narratives to legitimize dominion over non-Europeans. The native peoples of the Americas – whose ways of being and knowing differed from the Europeans – were deemed “not fully human” (Mills, C.W. 1997, p. 23). They were described as inferior, savage, and barbaric people who needed to be Christianized through European rule (Loven, 2010; McMahon, 2022; Mills, 1997, 2015). A similar narrative was used to justify the enslavement of African people. As Dei & Asgharzadeh (2001) point out, “Race, racism, and xenophobia lie at the heart of all colonialist and imperialist enterprises” (p. 309). 67 Quijano (2007) posits that the concept of race is arguably the most powerful tool for social domination. The racial hierarchy, which places whites at the top, Black people at the bottom, and other non-white groups in intermediate positions, became the core organizing principle of colonialism, shaping not only the Americas but also global power structures (Wynter, 1994; Quijano, 2007). These racial categories served to differentiate groups of people and legitimize the hierarchical roles of the colonized and the colonizer while denying the humanity of those classified as the “Human Other” (Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001; Wynter, 2003). As Fanon (1961) points out, the ideological essence of colonialism is a “systematic negation and furious determination” to deny Black people of “all attributes of humanity” (p. 250). To this end, race was created as the criterion for deciding who belongs to humanity. White supremacy stands as the flip side of racism, granting power and privileges to whites who have fabricated the fallacy of a racial hierarchy and positioned themselves at its apex. As Tlostanova & Mignolo (2012) explain, this idea of white supremacy and Black inferiority needed a system of knowledge to make it seem legitimate. “Once the idea was created, it legitimized the system of knowledge that created it,” and became a tool for dismissing other ways of knowing and being (Mignolo 1992, in Tiostanova & Mignolo, 2012, p. 42). Europe assumed the role of the authority on knowledge, presenting Eurocentric epistemologies as universal, scientific, accurate, and rational. Western science used Darwinian ideas to frame Europeans as biologically superior and Black people as inherently inferior, reinforcing racial hierarchies and relegating Black folks to what Fanon termed “Les damnés de la terre” [the damned of the earth] (Fanon, 1961). Angod (2006) aptly pens his interpretation of the colonial construction of Blackness, stating: Blackness as it is conceived by colonialism and the history of the Western world, cannot co-exist with humanity. This is because goodness resides in the trappings of whiteness. 68 And blackness exists only to instantiate whiteness. By virtue of its degenerate characteristics, blackness gestures to the goodness of whiteness; it brings its opposite into being. Blackness, then, is a signifier for the ‘superiority’ of whiteness. ( p. 162). While the notion of race as a biogenetically determined concept has been thoroughly discredited, race continues to impact varied facets of life globally (Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001). Indeed, as W.E.B. Du Bois in 1903 prophetically exclaimed, “the problem of the twentieth century [and even the twenty-first century] is the problem of the colour line” (Du Bois, 2022, p. 11). The Eurocentric perspective self-validates the colonial logic of biological value and dismisses any acknowledgment of the influence of power or other societal factors. However, Fanon (1952) reminds us that “besides phylogeny and ontogeny stands sociogeny” (p. 13). This means that an individual’s identity and experiences are not shaped solely by biological factors but also by the social and cultural environments in which they are embedded. Furthermore, colonial imposition not only legitimizes Eurocentric epistemologies but also demonizes and disregards other ways of being and knowing that are outside of the Eurocentric worldview. According to Hlabangane (2021), “these other ways of knowing and being are rendered unintelligible when filtered through Western sensibilities” (p. 166). To this end, Europeans see themselves as the most advanced of all species, and they propagate this perspective as hegemonic within the global model of power. Mignolo (2011) asserts that “the coloniality of knowledge and being have been created, perfected, transformed, expanded, imported and exported,” and therefore, dictate our ways of thinking and behaving (p.111). Through colonialism, the European way of life – i.e. the imperialist whitesupremacistcapitalistpatriarchial culture, as described by bell hooks (2014) – is positioned as the epitome of civilization. 69 4.1.2 The “Anti” in Anti-Colonial The “anti” in anti-colonialism denotes the resistance against colonial systems of domination, subjugation and intellectual control. Anti-colonial thought recognizes that colonialism is not a singular event in history but a continuous process of power dynamics that must be critiqued and actively resisted in both academic and activist spaces (Lewis, 2012). Scholars such as George Dei (2006) and Sujata Patel (2023) emphasize that contemporary anti-colonial thought did not begin in academia; instead, it has its roots in anti-colonial and decolonial movements that fought for political independence from European powers, particularly in the aftermath of World War II. This theory, as Simmons and Dei (2012) note, “emerges from the ‘ground up’” (p. 76). According to Dei (2010), most of the scholars – like Frantz Fanon, Albert Memmi, Aimé Césaire, Angela Davis, Marcus Garvey, and Kwame Nkrumah – who were instrumental in shaping anti-colonial thought were nationalists who were committed to resisting the colonial social order and promoting social change. When we read their work, we see references to anti-colonial resistance movements such as the Haitian Revolution (which resulted in Haiti becoming the first independent country in the Caribbean and the first Black republic in the world), Negritude (which sought to reclaim and assert the dignity and value of Black identity in France), the Civil Rights Movements (which led to the abolition of legalized racial segregation in the United States), and Garveyism (which aimed to achieve Black self-determination, collective unity, and economic independence globally). Anti-colonial scholars and activists saw the colonial order as a pervasive structure that demanded radical resistance and transformation at all levels of society – politically, culturally, and intellectually (Dei, 2010). As such, Dei & 70 Asgharzadeh (2001) assert that the strength of the anti-colonial framework lies in its ability to inspire social and political action. Albert Memmi (1965), in his seminal work The Colonizer and the Colonized, explores the psychological and social dynamics of colonialism. Memmi focuses on the reciprocal relationship between the colonizer and the colonized. He argues that colonialism is a system of mutual dependency, where both parties are shaped by the colonial power structure. The colonizer’s identity is constructed through domination, while the colonized are defined by subjugation. It produces a symbiotic relationship of “hate and desire.” Memmi exclaims, “How could he [the colonized] hate the colonizers and yet admire them so passionately?” (Memmi, 1965, p. 6). Similarly, Frantz Fanon explores how Black people internalize the values and perceptions of the colonial oppressor, leading to feelings of inferiority, alienation, and mental enslavement. Fanon writes that “The Negro is the one who is always being looked at, and who feels himself ‘looked at’ by others... His inferiority complex is the result of a historical fact, a fact that is imposed by a world of ‘whiteness’ that exists and that reflects itself on him.” (Fanon, 1952, p. 110). For this reason, anti-colonial theorization must also focus on the psychological aspect of colonialism. The “anti” in this context is then a rejection of the colonizer’s constructed authority and the refusal to accept the colonizer’s imposed identities. It is an unveiling and dismantling of the mental chains of colonial oppression. Simmons and Dei (2012) aptly describe anti-colonial thought as an “epistemology of the oppressed” (p. 76). It directly challenges the dominance of Western knowledge by reclaiming and celebrating indigenous ways of knowing. Akena (2012) describes Indigenous knowledge as “a complex accumulation of local context-relevant knowledge that embraces the essence of ancestral knowing as well as the legacies of diverse histories and cultures” (p. 601). This 71 perspective aligns with Wane’s (2006) assertion that the processes of colonization involved rewriting history to deny the colonizer's existence, devaluing their knowledge, and debasing their cultural beliefs and practices. Scholars like Dei (2008), Wane (2006), and Akena (2012) argue that the Western education system plays a crucial role in perpetuating a colonizing knowledge structure which systematically erases Indigenous epistemologies while reinforcing societal inequities based on race, culture, language, gender, and class. For Indigenous communities, reclaiming their own knowledge systems is an essential act of resistance – one that challenges the narrative imposed by colonial systems and seeks to revitalize the context-relevant ways of knowing that were deliberately suppressed, branded as inferior, and dismissed as backward (Akena, 2012; Wane, 2006). Akena (2012) further emphasizes that if we do not develop counter-narratives that clearly expose and challenge systems of domination and privilege, Indigenous worldviews risk being lost. Therefore, anti-colonial theorists should aim to engage with oppositional frameworks and counter-discourses that draw on Indigenous concepts, analytical methods, and cultural perspectives (Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001, p. 301). Anti-colonial scholars contend that language plays a central role in the construction and imposition of colonial knowledge. Scholars such as Fanon (1952) and Mignolo (1992) posit that when the colonizers imposed their languages on the colonized, they simultaneously imposed their worldviews. As Fanon (1952) writes, “To speak a language is to take on a world, a culture” (p. 38). By forcing the colonized to adopt the language of their oppressors, colonial powers sought to dismantle indigenous worldviews, thereby erasing the very foundation of indigenous culture and identity. Mulder (2015) points out that, after the abolition of slavery, most of the former enslaved no longer knew the languages of their ancestors. This epistemic violence often 72 carries deeper psychological effects, reinforcing the notion that the colonizer’s language – and by extension, their knowledge – is superior. Fanon (1952) illustrates how the Antilles Negro hones his French language skills as a way to prove his worth within the dominant culture. This is similar to Wane’s (2006) assertion that adopting another person's language can be seen as one of the highest forms of colonization. Meighan (2023) points out that English carries with it a history of colonialism and imperialism that reinforces Eurocentric worldviews and upholds colonial power structures. Contrary to colonial hegemonic imposition, anti-colonial thought advocates for a return to indigenous languages as a means of reclaiming agency and cultural identity. Dei (2008) emphasizes the importance of indigenous languages in preserving knowledge and cultural heritage, arguing that “speaking back” through indigenous languages is a powerful tool for resisting colonialism and restoring one's cultures, identities, and histories. Anti-colonial thought highlights the fundamental role of solidarity and collective resistance in the struggle against colonial domination. It emphasizes that solidarity, forged in a shared commitment to liberation, is necessary for challenging the hegemonic forces of colonialism (Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001, p. 312). The collective action of oppressed groups, as highlighted by Lewis (2012), is essential for breaking both the psychological and material chains of colonization. Anti-colonial discourse provides a space where diverse marginalized groups, through collective struggle, can “come to voice” and assert their identity, challenging and dismantling the systems that seek to silence and subjugate them (Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001, p. 317). As Mohanty (2003) further asserts, these collective struggles create new forms of activism rooted in a shared desire for emancipation and in opposition to both colonial and global capitalist systems of oppression. Amílcar Cabral’s work echoes this sentiment, arguing that one of the main aims of anti-colonial resistance is the reclamation of a people’s history, which had been 73 distorted or erased by colonial powers. Cabral asserts that the colonial powers did not bring the colonized into history but instead sought to sever them from their own historical trajectory, forcing them to follow the “progress” of the colonizers’ narrative (cited in Rabaka, 2014). By reclaiming their history and their future, colonized peoples reassert their autonomy, a process essential for true liberation (Doran, 2019). 4.2 Anti-Colonial, Post-Colonial, and Decolonial Thought Simmons and Dei (2012) clarify that while anti-colonialism may draw on postcolonial and neo-colonial writings and theoretical stances, these frameworks and approaches are not the same. Elam (2019) defines postcolonial theory as “a body of thought primarily concerned with accounting for the political, aesthetic, economic, historical, and social impact of European colonial rule around the world in the 18th through the 20th century” (para 1). Although both the anti-colonial framework and postcolonial discourse serve as critical lenses for interrogating colonialism and its consequences, they differ in some key respects. One significant difference between the two lies in the meaning and implications of their prefixes. While the “anti” in anti-colonial refers to “fighting against colonial forces” (Nunn & Whetung 2020, p. 155), the “post” in postcolonial refers to the “aftermath of colonial occupation” (Gandhi, 1998, p. 4). Implicit in the prefix “post” is the belief that colonialism has ended. As Dei and Asgharzadeh (2001) express, the ‘post’ symbolizes an “unrealistic rupture… a break from the colonial past and a plunge into a different state of being… a post-colonial world” (p. 304). Sawant (2012) states that post-colonialism refers to a historical event marked by terms like ‘after colonialism’, ‘after independence’, ‘after the end of empire’” (p. 120). On the other hand, anti-colonial scholars operate on the premise that colonialism “did not end with the return of political sovereignty to colonized peoples or nation states” (Dei and Kempf, 2006, p.2). They 74 assert that colonial relations should not be confined to traditional European or British colonialism but should encompass all forms of domination and oppression arising from power and privilege structures (Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001). The limited definition offered by postcolonial theorization ignores the ongoing colonial realities faced by the majority of the world’s population, especially those living under contemporary forms of domination such as neo-colonialism and ongoing imperialism. Nunn and Whetung (2020) note that anti-colonialism is closely linked with decolonization, though they are not identical. Both are analytical tools for interrogating colonialism and its legacies, but they differ in some ways. Decolonization, as Dei and Asgharzadeh (2001) describe, is a process that questions the entire colonial system and its aftermath, aiming to change the social order. It is concerned with “undoing colonialism” while reimagining and reconstructing society, culture, and knowledge and creating a “new humanism” (Wynter, 2003). Decolonial projects, as Quijano suggests, involve a “delinking” from colonial epistemologies and the development of alternative ways of knowing and understanding the world. While anti-colonialism is primarily about actively resisting and opposing colonialism, decolonization focuses on the long-term process of creating a society that is free from colonial influence (Nunn & Whetung, 2020; Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001). As Thiophene (1995) asserts, decolonization is not a final destination or an endpoint but an ongoing process (cited in Dei & Asgharzadeh, 2001, p. 298). In line with this thought, Dei and Asgharzadeh (2001) argue that anti-colonial actions are essential for decolonial projects. 4.3 Anti-Colonial Theory and Its Application to the Study Anti-colonial discourse provides a critical framework for examining how colonial legacies and dominance persist in modern institutions like schools. As Wane (2006) notes, “Any 75 barbarism. Whiteness, on the other hand, has been historically linked to civility, order, and moral superiority, often portrayed as the standard of discipline and societal normativity ( D’Angelo, 2016; Goldberg, 1993, 2001). Interrogating the policy rationale from this perspective alerts us to the colonial assumption that is embedded in the grooming policy: Black physical appearance, including Black hair, is uncultured and in need of discipline. The practice of associating indiscipline with blackness and discipline with whiteness reflects broader dichotomies that continue to reinforce racialized power structures in educational institutions. As Fanon (1961) states, the colonial world is a Manichean world, characterized by a dualistic worldview where the Europeans are seen as civilized and rational and Black people are viewed as uncivilized, barbaric and in need of control. This dualistic worldview, created by colonialism, placed Europeans in a position of superiority while deeming Black people inferior. Black bodies are stripped of their humanizing characteristics through this dehumanizing and violent process. White bodies are defined as “human,” and Black bodies are categorized as “not fully human” (Wynter, 2003). This dualistic racialization served to justify the atrocities of slavery and presented colonization as a “civilizing mission” (Fanon, 1961). Given that Black bodies, and by extension Black hair, are deemed uncivilized through a colonial lens, rules were created in schools to control and manage their presence. The students themselves recognize that the policy frames Black natural hair as a problem to be regulated, controlled, and disciplined. As both Eva and Abigail remark, “[Sankofa High] is training us to be young ladies.” The term “lady,” when invoked within the local context, is heavily laden with gendered, classed, and racialized connotations. In Jamaica, a sharp divide exists between a “lady” and a “woman.” According to Lisa Douglass (1991), the term woman is often used to describe a working-class, dark-skinned female who is loud, aggressive, unruly, and 82 unfeminine. A “lady,” on the other hand, is of middleor upper-class status, typically a white or brown female, educated, refined, soft-spoken, feminine, and does not use vulgar language (Douglass, 1991). Evidently, the Jamaican notion of class is mediated by race and other factors to differentiate between a lady and a woman. Both Stuart Hall and Eleanor J. Blair suggest that race and class are not fixed but performative, hence they are fluid categories marked with certain restrictions. Following this reasoning, a dark-skinned individual can attain the status of a “lady” by adopting the traits associated with this ideal. In this way, schools train girls to conform to a racial and class-based ideal of femininity through the enforcement of hair grooming standards. The policy’s emphasis on grooming represents a cultural and institutional belief that hair, as a visible signifier of character, needs to be regulated to ensure that students embody traits like discipline and readiness for society. A closer examination of the cultural context of “discipline” reveals that a set of colonial logics are embedded within it. The notion of discipline is tied to race, class, and gender hierarchies that seek to control, tame, and regulate Black bodies. By tying “discipline” to whiteness, middle/upper-class status, and femininity, Black girls are forced to change their natural hair to fit the mould of “proper” and “appropriate” appearance for success. The racialized understanding of femininity demands that Black girls deny their Blackness and subject themselves to rules that link Black hair to negative character traits. The problem represented by the policy, then, is not simply about appearance or grooming – it is about the colonial power structures that define who belongs to the category of “human” and who does not. The grooming policy reinforces colonial racialized power structures that have constructed Blackness as uncultured, uncivilized, and in need of training and regulation. The enforcement of the hair grooming policy can then be described as a civilizing mission to discipline Black hair into “proper” colonial ideals of femininity. 83 5.3 No Fuzz - No Fuss? Sankofa High School’s grooming policy does not explicitly ban or single out natural hair or any particular natural hairstyle. It is framed as a ‘neutral’ policy, designed to apply uniformity to “ALL STUDENTS” regardless of ethnicity. However, this purported “neutrality” is complicated by the underlying implications of the policy and the way it is enforced. One administrator, Mr. Bob, tried to justify the policy rationale by stating, “No one has a problem with natural hair, it’s the way the students carry themselves, the hairstyles they wear and the values attached to them.” In this seemingly innocuous statement, Mr. Bob unwittingly reveals the policy’s true purpose: to act as part of a civilizing mission – one that seeks to reshape students’ appearances according to a narrow, prescribed standard of discipline and respectability. Mr. Bob points out that certain hairstyles carry implicit value judgments, with some being associated with positive or appropriate traits, while others are seen as embodying negative or unladylike qualities. This raises the question: Which hairstyles carry positive values and which do not? While the policy itself refrains from naming specific hairstyles, its enforcement speaks volumes. Teachers and administrators frequently instruct students to modify their hairstyles, exposing the hidden biases embedded in the policy. Over time, students have come to recognize which hairstyles are targeted: Afros, Chiney bumps (Bantu knots), and high puffs. These styles are repeatedly flagged as “inappropriate,” revealing a clear message that these hairstyles carry negative values and are inherently “unladylike” or unworthy of being worn on the school grounds. What makes this even more troubling is that these hairstyles are unique to Black people due to the natural characteristics of their hair. As Sherrow (2023) demonstrates, the very texture of Black natural hair allows for the formation of these styles in ways that chemically altered hair or straight hair cannot replicate. Additionally, students have noticed a striking disparity in policy 84 enforcement. They have observed that individuals with straight or chemically treated hair are rarely, if ever, asked to modify their hairstyles to meet the grooming standards. This shows that despite the absence of explicit reference to natural hair or natural hairstyles, the enforcement of the policy does not obscure its investment in framing Black hair as a problem to be corrected, disciplined, and controlled. To better understand the scope of this problem, let us take a closer look at the specific language used in the policy to describe what is considered appropriate grooming and what is not. Here, I continue to apply the WPR approach through an anticolonial lens, probing the assumptions and power relations embedded in these definitions. Thinking problematically allows me to shift from accepting the policy’s claims as given to interrogating how such “truths” are produced, what ideologies they rely on, and whose interests they serve. This examination will highlight the guidelines of the “civilizing mission,” i.e., the training young Black girls undergo to become “respectable young ladies” as defined through the colonial lens. Sankofa High School’s hair grooming policy states: 1. Hair must be neatly restrained at all times. 2. Hair ornaments should be small and should not exceed six pieces. 3. No artificial hair of any kind 4. No hair colouring 5. No beads, no bandeau, no headband, no showy hair ornaments Each infraction is viewed as it relates to oneself and the school community at large. Any breach of the grooming policy will result in the student being sent to correct the uniform, receive a detention mark, or be suspended. Other possible actions include: sending for a parent/guardian or referring to a Guidance Counsellor. A written report will be placed in the student’s file. (Sankofa High School Handbook, 2024, p. 20) At first glance, the policy’s general guidelines may appear to be “neutral” and universally applicable. However, a critical examination of the specific language used in the policy reveals its anti-Blackness and demonstrates how Black natural hair is disproportionately impacted. Here in this manuscript, I will start this problematization by examining the word “neat.” I was curious to 85 learn the understanding of the word “neat” at Sankofa High, so I asked the students to share their perspectives. Their responses highlighted the conflict between the policy and the natural characteristics of their hair. They described “neat” hair as one in which all coiled tresses and individual strands are flattened and tucked away, leaving no loose hair visible. Brianna explained that neat hair is “not frizzy,” while Destiny elaborated that the “neatness” school administrators seek involves “getting the products in and ensuring that it [the strands] stays down.” The Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary (2025) describes frizzy hair as hair that is not smooth or orderly because the individual strands do not align together. Unlike straight or wavy hair, which tends to lie flat and uniform against the scalp, Black natural hair grows in tight coils, curls, or zig-zag patterns (Heva Clinic, 2025; Sherrow, 2023). These patterns naturally create volume and lift, causing the hair to expand outward and upward rather than lying flat. As Fallon notes, due to its natural characteristics and growth pattern, “curly/afro-textured hair is automatically assumed as fuzzy,” hence it must be altered or “tamed” to be perceived as proper for school. By requiring girls to flatten and restrain their hair, the school sends the message that hair that grows upwards or outwards is inferior to hair that grows flat. In other words, Black natural hair is positioned as inferior to straight or chemically altered hair. As Tate (2017) suggests, the school rules dictate that Black hair needs to be “domesticated” to meet the school’s expectations (p. 99). This is an attempt to control Black girls’ bodies by forcing students to “reduce their Blackness into a more palatable state” (Brown, 2018, p. 74). This illustrates how racialized hierarchies and Eurocentric norms are perpetuated within a majority-Black population by Black individuals themselves. Drawing on the work of Frantz Fanon (1952), I describe this imposition as a form of internalized inferiority. Fanon describes Black folks as “people in whose soul an 86 inferiority complex has been created” (p. 18). He explains that colonized people internalize an “inferiority complex,” where they are made to believe that their ways of life are primitive or unworthy compared to the colonizer’s culture (Fanon, 1952, p. 18). This internalized inferiority is passed down from one generation to the next and erases cultural identity in an attempt to emulate whiteness, which is positioned as superior. The imposition of colonial hair ideals is particularly damaging to students, both psychologically and physically. Mercer (1987) points out that hair is the most visible marker of Black identity next to skin; therefore, when schools demand that students restrain or alter their natural hair, they are, in effect, erasing black identity. This “erasure of Black presence from socio-political and aesthetic life” is rooted in the “dissection of Black bodies,” where Black natural features are judged, devalued, and forced into conformity with Eurocentric standards (Tate, 2017, p. 99). Hair grooming policies remind students that Black natural hair falls low on the scale of beauty while affirming Eurocentric, hegemonic beauty paradigms (Prince, 2009). Therefore, when Black students are told their hair is a violation of school rules, it is not just a condemnation of their physical appearance. Undoubtedly, it is a rejection of their racial identity. Tate (2017) asks, “What must it be like for your hair to be described as a ‘violation’ when you yourself, your bodily integrity, your racial identity as shown through your hair are violated by taunts and school rules?” (p. 98). The psychological toll of this violence is immense, as it forces children to internalize the idea that they are somehow less worthy, less beautiful, and less deserving of acceptance simply because of how their hair naturally grows (Mbilishaka & Apugo, 2020; Nkimbeng et al., 2023). This contempt is a form of psychic violence that damages students’ sense of self-worth and makes it difficult to navigate a world that continually devalues their natural identity. 87 The students at Sankofa High express their frustration with the challenge of keeping their hair “neatly restrained,” a task that sometimes feels impossible to achieve. To attain a “flattened” and “neat” appearance, many students rely on creams, gels, grease, and other styling products to smooth their hair and hold it in place. While sitting under a tree, one student with short afro-textured hair shared her daily struggle to meet this requirement. She explained that she must use a significant amount of gel and secure her hair with a headwrap overnight to keep the strands flattened and “neat.” Yet, despite her best efforts, before the end of the school day, her hair begins to “frizz out,” betraying her attempts to flatten it. Her recurring battle is met with the harsh criticism of teachers, who frequently ask, “Why don’t you comb your hair?” As if her natural coils were a problem. Her loose, uneven strands become a point of judgment. Another student chimed in and said, “Dat’s y mi jus cream mi hair. Mi hair too short fi ketch up r duh slick back, an mi caan bodda wid dem a tell mi fi fix it.” [“That's why I relax my hair. My hair is too short to put my hair up in a ponytail or do a slick back hairdo, moreover, I can't be bothered with them telling me to fix it.”] The physical effects of altering Black natural hair to fit colonial hegemonic standards of beauty and femininity are numerous. The use of chemicals and heat to straighten or flatten hair results in burns, physical pain, hair disorders, and elevated risks of other illnesses (Anderson, 2020; Donahoo & Smith, 2022). Recent studies also reveal that the use of hair products in the Black community exposes individuals to endocrine-disrupting chemicals, some associated with adverse health outcomes, including breast cancer (James-Todd et al., 2021; Fillon, 2017). In addition, the use of chemicals or even wearing hairstyles that restrain the hair can result in hair breakage and hair loss. Dupes and Sandeen (2024) explain that styles such as ponytails, buns, and slick-backs can exert excessive tension on the hair shafts, leading to hair and scalp disorders. 88 The students at Sankofa High often wear buns and slickback hairstyles because when the coily strands are flattened and tucked away, their hair is less likely to be viewed as a violation of the school rules. Many students at Sankofa High have observed detrimental effects on their hair health as a consequence of regularly wearing these restrictive styles. To mitigate this, Destiny and her friends have chosen to avoid restraining their hair outside of school in an effort to preserve its health. Students have also experienced headaches from wearing hairstyles intended to maintain a flat and neat appearance. One day, I noticed Eva sitting quietly in the library, her hair unbound. The imprint of her hair tie was a silent testament to the effort she had put into restraining her short, afro-textured hair. Curiously, I asked why she had removed the hair tie. Eva explained that she was experiencing a headache. As she spoke, it became clear that the constant pressure to keep her hair restrained was a physical burden and a source of discomfort. She shared that she often experiences headaches whenever she attempts to put her hair up. In search of relief, she would often sneak away to quiet corners, removing her hair tie to escape the constant strain. Eva expressed a deep yearning to let her hair flow freely, unbound by the expectations imposed upon her by the grooming policy. She wished for a world where her hair was not problematic, where the natural state of her hair would not be seen as untidy but as an expression of who she truly is. When her hair is unrestrained, Eva noted, the headaches vanish. So she removes the hair tie because it offers a brief reprieve from the physical and emotional weight of conforming to the socially constructed definition of “neat” hair. But once she returns to the purview of the administrators, teachers, and students, Eva is back under the surveillance of the colonial gaze. 89 5.4 Where are the silences? The idea that straight, flat, shiny hair is “neat,” while curly/coily hair is deemed untidy and must be restrained or altered to be “proper,” raises critical questions about the origins and persistence of these hair grooming norms. Why has Sankofa High School adopted the practice of regulating hair? Who defines what is neat? What is left unproblematic in the Sankofa High School hair grooming policy? Abigail firmly believes that “It comes from colonization. It comes from colorism, it comes from classism, it comes from racism, which is engraved in us as Black people… It’s deeper than just the surface.” Abigail is incisive and deeply attuned to the colonial underpinnings of the policy. Her reading unsettles the common assumption that students are unaware of the power structures that shape their schooling. Her assessment leads us beyond surface-level interpretations of “neatness” and “discipline” to the deeper structures of domination and the afterlives of official colonization. Firstly, the perception that Black hair in its natural coily or curly state is untidy and in need of regulation is not a neutral or naturally occurring judgment. It is a social construct shaped by centuries of colonial oppression, racial discrimination, and hegemonic violence. This mindset traces back to Western colonization. Colonial powers imposed physical violence on Black bodies and promoted rigid beauty standards. European features were glorified, while others were dehumanized to justify the violence of slavery. Historical records show that there was no negative perception of Black hair prior to colonization. This historical fact further highlights how the perception of natural curly or coily hair as untidy and in need of regulation is socially constructed through colonial dominance. As demonstrated by scholars such as Banks (2021), Byrd & Tharps (2014), Johnson & Bankhead (2014), Sherrow (2023), and Sieber & Herreman (2000), Black natural hair in 90 pre-colonial African communities was a beautiful and rich expression of cultural identity and pride. However, colonial powers used legal, social, and psychological means to impose Eurocentric standards and devalue African culture and beauty. Scientific racism served as a tool of domination, reinforcing a racial hierarchy that positioned Blackness as inferior to the European norm. Under colonial rule, Black hair was often subjected to legal regulations as a form of racialized control and subjugation. As Johnson & Bankhead (2014) point out, enslaved Africans’ hair was forcibly cut off before they were taken to the Americas. When they arrived in the West, Africans could no longer practice their hairstyling culture, instead, they were forced to abide by hair regulations for the very first time. Evidently, there is nothing inherently negative about Black natural hair. Black curls and coils are neither untidy nor messy – they are beautiful. Therefore, when schools implement policies that imply that Black students should flatten and restrain their coils and curls for their hairstyles to be considered “proper” for school, those policies cannot be described as neutral. The policies are built on a colonial logic that should be eradicated. We should remember that before European colonization, Black hair in Africa was celebrated for its beauty and cultural significance. Black hairstyles were works of art, rich with meaning and positive symbolism. They were free from the white gaze and without restrictions. It was the Europeans who altered the narratives, perceptions, and treatment of Black hair as a means to exert power and control over Black folks. Today, even in the absence of official colonial powers, these colonial constructs of beauty and civility persist. The school administrators, despite being Black, are not exempt from the pervasive influence of colonialism. They have internalized the very standards of whiteness that once sought to oppress them. Even the students are not blinded by the facade of a “post-colonial 91 their hairdo while the other is allowed to keep it, with no violation of school rules. The students are clear about the reason: it is texturism. Those with looser-textured hair are permitted to wear styles that students with tighter curls are not allowed to wear. This inconsistency exposes the underlying bias that it is not just hairstyles being judged, but the very texture of hair itself. 5.7 Texturism Black natural hair is incredibly diverse and does not follow a monolithic texture. It comes in all shapes, colours, and patterns, each unique to the person it belongs to. According to Sherrow (2023), Black hair can range from thin to thick and from nearly straight to tightly coiled curls. Following the colonial logic of colour hierarchies, a hierarchy of textures that favours looser hair over kinkier hair has emerged. This social structure has led to a phenomenon known in Black communities as texturism – a form of discrimination that privileges individuals with looser curls or straighter hair over those with more tightly coiled hair. Texturism is often viewed as an extension of colorism, with both phenomena rooted in similar systems of intra-racial discrimination (Ellington, 2023; Kelly, 2024; Tate, 2025). Novelist Alice Walker, credited with coining the term colorism in her 1983 book In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens, defines colourism as “prejudicial and preferential treatment of same-race people based on their colour” (Walker, 2004, p. 290). In much the same way, texturism operates as a form of bias that gives preferential treatment to hair textures that appear closer to whiteness and inadvertently marginalizes individuals with tighter coils or kinkier hair. The roots of texturism and colorism are deeply planted in the colonial history of the Caribbean. These biases were not born out of natural differences but were manufactured to maintain a racial hierarchy constructed by the colonizers. As Mercer (2000) notes, the colonizers devised a system of pigmentocracy, upon which skin colour would determine one’s labour and 98 socio-economic standing. During slavery, lighter-skinned Black individuals – often the offspring of enslaved African women and White slave owners through rape (Roberts, 2010, White, 2023) – were sometimes afforded privileges that darker-skinned individuals were not. Lighter-skinned enslaved people often worked in the enslaver’s house, performing tasks that were seen as less physically demanding. They sometimes had access to better food, clothing, and living conditions. Meanwhile, the darker-skinned enslaved individuals laboured under the harshest conditions in the fields. The physical divide between lighter-skinned enslaved people and darker-skinned ones mirrored the psychological and societal divide, which linked proximity to Whiteness with higher status, intelligence, and beauty (Brown, Ward, Lightbourn, & Jackson, 1999; Keith & Herring, 1991). In tandem with this, the looser curls commonly found in lighter-skinned and ‘mixed-race’ Black individuals’ hair were perceived as closer in texture to White people’s hair and, therefore, more desirable. This association between straighter, looser hair and higher social status reinforced the falsely constructed notion that hair resembling that of White people was inherently superior. The end of slavery did not mark the end of these discriminatory practices; in fact, they persisted in more covert and internalized ways in Black communities. The phrases “good hair” and “bad hair” took root in Black communities, continuing the divide. “Good hair” referred to hair that was loose, wavy, or straight, while “bad hair” was used to describe hair that was thick and tightly coiled (Banks, 2000; Byrd & Tharps, 2001; Mercer, 1987). In Jamaica, the terms “pretty hair” and “dry head” mirror the “good hair” versus “bad hair” dichotomy, reflecting a broader cultural divide that shapes perceptions of beauty and self-worth. Although these terms denigrate Black hair, they are often used in Black households. Byrd and Tharps (2001) note that relatives would inspect a newborn and speculate about the texture of the hair that would cover 99 the baby’s head. Parents use phrases such as “I hope my baby keeps her ‘good’ hair. It lays down so nice and is so slick and soft” (Ellington, 2023, p. 39). It was not unusual for a parent to express relief or pride if a child inherited “good hair.” Parents, often unknowingly, instill these distinctions and the social value attached to hair texture in their children. The subconscious message was clear: straight hair was better, and kinky, coily hair was a problem to be solved or hidden. hooks (1989) describes the covert operation of texturism in Black communities, stating; Good hair is hair that is not kinky, hair that does not feel like balls of steel wool, hair that does not take hours to comb, hair that does not need tons of grease to untangle, hair that is long. Real good hair is straight hair, hair like white folks’ hair. Yet no one says so. No one says your hair is so nice, so beautiful because it is like white folks’ hair. We pretend that the standards we measure our beauty by are our own invention. (p. 382) The students at Sankofa High School are acutely aware of texturism and how it manifests itself at the school. Destiny says the texturism is “as clear as day,” and Abigail adds that it is obvious that “they [the school administrators] are mainly targeting 4C hair.” “4C” refers to a designation of hair texture based on the Andre Walker Hair Typing System, which categorizes hair textures based on curl patterns (see Figure 5.2). In this system, as explained by Blay (2021), hair is classified into a series of types and subtypes ranging from straight (Type 1) to wavy (Type 2), curly (Type 3), and coily (Type 4). The letters A, B, and C further categorize the hair type by describing the looseness or tightness of the curl, as well as how much volume and frizz it might have (Blay, 2021). According to Byrd and Tharps (2001), most Black women fall into the 3B to 4C categories. Sherrow (2023) states that about 75 percent of Black people have hair labelled kinky or spiralled. 100 point. They often hear schoolmates comparing girls in friend groups. “Haven’t you noticed that your friend has ‘pretty hair’ while your hair is so ugly?” students often say. Abigail shares that she faces harsh criticisms about her 4C hair nearly every day. “Fi yuh hair dry and tough.” “Trashy and fava basket.” These comments translated as “Your hair is dry and tough” and “Your hair is trashy, and it resembles a basket made from bushes” illustrate the internalized belief that kinky hair is like bushes: short, uncultivated, and undesirable. Both Abigail and Destiny used the words “sad” and “depressing” to describe how they feel about the unequal treatment. Furthermore, the rules teach students to internalize these hair texture divisions, thereby shaping the “subjective positions” individuals are influenced to accept based on the way a problem is framed in policy (Bacchi, 2019b, 51:50). In Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon describes how colonized subjects come to view themselves through the colonizer’s gaze, often developing a “racial epidermal schema” that dictates self-worth according to proximity to whiteness (p. 112). This “epidermalization” of inferiority reveals how colonial imposition operates psychologically by instilling a sense of otherness and self-devaluation. At Sankofa High, the epidermalization Fanon speaks of is not contingent upon the presence of white bodies but is sustained through institutional practices that sediment colonial logics in the everyday lives of the students. What emerges is a form of alienation wherein students learn to read their natural textures as problems to be corrected or erased, and deploy defence mechanisms when their position on the racial schema is called out. This is evident when students try to downplay or mask their hurt from hair shaming with responses such as “mi know mi head dry - suh wah?” [I already know I have ‘bad hair,’ so why does it matter?] Yet, they proceed to texturize their hair, i.e., to use a chemical process that loosens tight curl patterns without fully straightening it (Sandeen, 2024). 102 This subjectification is also evident when students gloat about their mixed or “coolie” heritage. “Coolie” is a term used in Jamaica to describe a person of Indian heritage, often of mixed Indian and African descent (JP Linguistics, 2025). While Merriam-Webster (2025) traces the English word to the Hindi and Urdu kūli/qulī, meaning an unskilled labourer hired for subsistence wages, its colonial deployment carried dehumanizing connotations. As Breman and Daniel (1992) note, the term appears as early as 1581 in a letter that distinguishes between “men” and “coolies,” signaling a racialized hierarchy in which coolies were imagined as less than human (p. 269). Following the abolition of slavery in the British Empire, colonial powers turned to indentured labour to fill the economic void, importing workers from India to toil under harsh conditions in plantations across the Caribbean. These workers, labeled as “coolies,” endured a form of “voluntary slavery” and the negative meanings associated with the word coolie persisted in the Caribbean (Damir-Geilsdorf et al., 2016, p. 13). Over time, the meaning of “coolie” shifted in Jamaica. While it remains rooted in this violent history of colonialism and racialization, the term is now used colloquially to describe someone with “good hair,” often implying softer textures associated with mixed-race Indian ancestry. Hence, when a student brags about being a coolie, they are exerting their position on the racial schema while distancing themselves from Blackness. These experiences reflect the persistence of colonial beauty standards, where phenotypical proximity to whiteness is valorized and African features are disparaged. 5.8 Conclusion Sankofa High School’s hair grooming policy seems non-discriminatory when read at face value, however, the enforcement reveals that the end of formal colonial rule did not mark the end of colonialism. Colonial logics continue to shape the everyday practices of educational 103 institutions in Jamaica, embedded in the mundane routines of schooling and discipline. The rule mandates that hair be restrained, yet, in practice, only students with Afro-textured hair are forced to abide by that rule. The definition of neat is laden with anti-Black sentiments, which demand that natural kinks and coils be suppressed, hidden, or altered to be considered proper grooming. Imposing bans on hairstyles linked to anti-colonial movements and African roots sends a clear message that schools remain invested in maintaining the racial hierarchy that serves the interests of the colonizers. The assumptions and logic used to justify the grooming policies reveal a pattern of colonial continuity. The rationale that students are judged based on their outward appearance may be true, but what is left unspoken in the policy is that these judgements are based on colonial logic, where Blackness is silently tied to notions of indiscipline, and whiteness to ideals of femininity and respectability. In this regard, Black girls are made to feel as though their natural Afro-textured hair does not belong in schools. Students feel pressured to use chemicals or loads of hair products to alter or “tame” the texture of their natural hair. In the end, the students are left with psychological harm taking shape through feelings of shame, hyper-awareness of the body, anxiety, and internalization of inferiority. The physical and health impacts of these hair policies are also evident, with students reporting headaches that impede their focus at school and hair breakage. Many students have recognized that the policies governing their hair carry the residue of colonial rule. They understand that they are in a school built to serve white boys and exclude Black life entirely. Though the institution now serves a predominantly Black student body and is led by Black administrators, the foundational ideologies have not changed, and its administrators continue to perpetuate the same systems of subjugation that were originally imposed on them. 104 Homi Bhabha’s concept of colonial mimicry — “almost the same, but not quite” — helps explain how people who were once excluded by colonial systems can end up reinforcing those same systems. Bhabha (2021) describes mimicry as the way colonized subjects imitate the language, behaviour, and values of the colonizer. But this imitation is always incomplete and slightly different, revealing both the desire to belong and the impossibility of full acceptance (Bhabha, 2021). Like Fanon’s (1952) Antillean subject who perfects the colonizer’s language to be accepted by the white man, these Black school administrators uphold policies to signal their proximity to colonial notions of civility. Students understand this reality. They feel the weight of policies that continue to frame their natural hair as indisciplined and problematic. Abigail calls out colonialism. Destiny names it “retention from slavery.” All the young girls indict the school for preserving the legacy of a slave owner. In naming the knowledge systems that underpin the hair grooming policy, students are demanding a change. They are calling for the dismantling of colonial policies and imagining possibilities for Black life (Evans-Winters & Love, 2015; Kelly, 2022). Their imagination invokes Afrofuturism (see Eshun, 2003 and Jenkins, 2021). They imagine Black life as anticipatory (McKittrick, 2013) and a refusal to accept the world as it is now. These students long for a school where Black girls are affirmed in their natural state, where femininity is not defined by colonial ideals, and where policy becomes a tool of care rather than control. 105 Chapter 6 Hair Joy 6.1 Introduction Una Marson: “Kinky Hair Blues” (1937) Gwine find a beauty shop Cause I ain't a belle. Gwine find a beauty shop Cause I ain't a lovely belle. The boys pass me by, They say I's not so swell. See oder young gals So slick and smart. See dose oder young gals So slick and smart. I jes gwine die on de shelf, If I don't mek a start. I hate dat ironed hair And dat bleaching skin. Hate dat ironed hair And dat bleaching skin. But I'll be all alone, If I don't fall in. Lord 'tis you did gie me All dis kinky hair. 'Tis you did gie me All dis kinky hair, And I don't envy gals What got dose locks so fair. I like me black face And me kinky hair. I like me black face And me kinky hair. But nobody loves dem, I jes don't tink it's fair. Now I's gwine press me hair And bleach me skin. 106 I's gwine press me hair And bleach me skin. What won't a gal do Some kind of man to win. Una Marson’s 1937 poem Kinky Hair Blues captures the struggle of embracing one’s natural kinky hair while grappling with the beauty ideals that demand conformity. Marson stands on the precipice of a decision, torn between her love for her ‘black face’ and ‘kinky hair’ and the societal pressure to adopt a ‘slick and smart’ appearance. Despite her love for her natural hair and her disdain for the hot iron, she ultimately chooses to press her hair, succumbing to the forces of expectation. This internal conflict is a story many Black girls and women can relate to, especially when attending schools with policies that pressure them to “restrain” their coily tresses. Needless to say, Black women and girls have never passively succumbed to colonial aesthetic demands; instead, they have been actively resisting for centuries. As Professor Dip Kapoor often reminds his students, “oppression breeds resistance.” In other words, the very systems designed to dominate and control Black bodies often spark movements and counter-discourses aimed at reclaiming power and agency (Fanon, 1961; Gandhi, 1998). Drawing from an anti-colonial perspective, resistance is understood as actions, both subtle and overt, through which marginalized agencies (individuals or groups) “have an impact on power” and challenge societal norms (Richmond, 2011). As I alluded to in Chapter 2, there are numerous examples of how Black hair has been disparaged. There are also accounts of how it has been reclaimed as a form of resistance throughout Western colonial history. During the Transatlantic Slave Trade, for instance, African people’s hair was forcibly cut as a means of stripping them of their identity (Banks, 2021; Johnson & Bankhead, 2014; Ngandu‐Kalenga Greensword, 2022). However, as Carney (2004) explains, African women found ways to conceal 107 living (p. 18). Here we see Black girls enact new ways of being and of surviving amidst the colonial climate. Although Brianna briefly considered straightening her hair and even tested a small section, this desire was not driven by self-hatred or the belief that straight hair was superior, as suggested by numerous studies. As Brianna explains, she simply wanted to experiment with a different style since Black hair is so versatile. She saw “straightened Black hair as just another hairstyle in the series of possibilities” (Tate, 2009, p. 43), not as the epitome of beauty. However, she refused to commit to waiting an extended period of time for her curls to return. Certainly, Brianna sees much beauty and value in Black natural hair. Eva shared similar sentiments, explaining that she had witnessed the damage chemicals had caused to other people’s hair. Determined to avoid that harm, she has no interest in subjecting her own hair to such treatments. “It’s also too expensive for me,” she added, highlighting the ongoing costs of regular salon visits for chemical treatments. Black women participants in Mbilishaka’s (2018) research also expressed that hair straightening is quite costly, whether getting it professionally done or purchasing materials from beauty supply stores. Consequently, many Black women have embraced “DIY” - Do it yourself - approaches to styling their natural hair, opting for natural hairstyles that help prevent hair breakage ( Mbilishaka and Hudlin, 2023). By keeping her hair natural, Eva feels she can sidestep both the financial and health-related burdens. “I don’t have to worry about that,” she said with a sigh of relief. Despite the challenges of managing her “thick” hair, Eva remains resolute in her decision not to chemically alter her hair. “Mi naah process mi hair” [I will never process my hair] she declared firmly, her words a proud affirmation of her commitment to embracing and loving her 4C textured coils. 114 Chantel, too, has never relaxed her hair and has no desire to do so. She avoids even a silk press or using heat to blow dry her hair, as she is committed to keeping her hair healthy by maintaining her natural kinks. However, she admits that keeping her hair healthy can be a challenge when she comes to school. To conform to the school’s grooming rule, which states that hair must be “neatly restrained at all times,” Chantel often does a slick-back hairstyle. This requires her to use a significant amount of hair wax to “smooth and flatten” her hair, applying it in sections to achieve a “neatly restrained” look as prescribed by the school. This styling product allows Chantel to keep her hair in place, but it contains ingredients like alcohol that can dry out the hair and scalp, so the excessive use of wax can be harmful to her natural hair, potentially leading to product buildup, breakage, and hair loss (Davis-Sivasothy, 2011). Outside of school, Chantel mainly wears protective styles like braids, cornrows, Chiney Bumps, and wigs to nurture the health of her 4C hair. Historically, Black hair has been framed as “unmanageable,” and many Black women have cited the difficulty of styling natural hair as the reason for chemically altering their hair (Barnett, 2016; Mbilishaka and Hudlin, 2023; Randle, 2015; Thompson, 2009). As Byrd and Tharp (2014) point out, “many Black people go through life never knowing the style and beauty options natural hair offers” (p. 156). However, for Chantel, the styles she rocks are an attestation to how natural hair is “manageable” and incredibly versatile. She recalls how, when she was younger, she hated her hair because her cousins would tug on it while styling it, causing her pain. Over time, Chantel found the right comb and hair oils that made her realize that her hair was manageable and fun to style.“I love my natural curls,” Chantel said with genuine affection as she enthusiastically showed me photos of her hairdos, including the “wash and go” hairstyle she wore over the summer break when she did not have to restrain her curls with wax. “Wash and 115 go” is a low-maintenance style achieved by washing the hair, applying hair oil and/or leave-in conditioner, and letting the hair dry with minimal manipulation (Carol’s Daughter, 2023). Chantel’s determination to maintain her Afro-textured curls and show off her curls/coily tresses exemplifies a cultural shift in how Black hair is understood. Both Destiny and Fallon shared experiences of wanting to relax their hair during their younger years. Fallon recalled, “When I was younger, I wanted to have straight hair because my mom had cream hair, and it was so pretty and long, and I was like, I want my hair to stay down, because at that time, almost everyone had cream hair.” Destiny shared a similar story, recounting how she really wanted to relax her hair because most of the women in her family had already done so. “My mom, my aunts, everyone, basically,” she said. Her family members had processed their hair, citing the difficulty of managing their natural textures as their reason. Destiny vividly remembered going to the store and seeing relaxer kits marketed with images of kids with straight, silky hair. She profusely begged her mother to buy one, but her mother constantly refused. “It took me a while to accept my natural hair and learn to love it,” Destiny reflected on her journey to self-acceptance. All the students in the study spoke with pride about embracing their natural kinks, curls, and coils. They all emphasize the importance of nurturing coily tresses to preserve their natural health. But this was not always the case in high schools in Jamaica. In years past, despite knowing the risks and long-term consequences of chemical relaxers, people still subjected their hair to harsh treatments. I, too, was no stranger to this contradiction. I vividly remember the searing burns from the chemicals, scarring my scalp in ways that left me cringing. Yet, I persisted. Why? As I explained in Chapters 2 and 5, straight, silky hair was the marker of professionalism and a “respectable lady” in Jamaican culture. Whiteness and its associated 116 features, including straight hair, have been used as the yardstick by which beauty and difference are measured (Johnson & Bankhead, 2014; Tate, 2007; Weekes, 1997). I felt the pain and saw the scars, but the burns were easily hidden beneath the sleek, flat, glossy tresses the relaxer produced. I had spent years being teased and shamed about my natural hair, so when I finally started to process my hair, I decided to tolerate the pain. The pain I endured was secondary to the perception that straightened hair conveyed success, discipline, beauty, femininity, and respectability. I did not hate my hair, but I wanted to be viewed in a positive light. In discourse surrounding Black hair, the prevailing psychological interpretations often suggest that hair straightening is indicative of self-hatred, implying that Black folks are rejecting their natural hair in favour of Eurocentric ideals of beauty (Mbilishaka & Hudlin, 2023; Banks, 2000). However, these interpretations fail to account for the complex psychosocial factors that influence the choices made by Black folks regarding their hair. Scholars such as Althea Prince and Shirley Anne Tate argue that altering one’s hair texture is not necessarily the result of internalized racism but rather a survival tactic rooted in respectability politics. Martin-Seaver (2024) describes respectability politics as a complex and ambivalent strategy that involves adjusting to the expectations of dominant cultural norms to achieve acceptance or success in professional and academic environments. Altering one’s hair, with the use of chemical relaxers, texturizers, or any other method, becomes a practical accommodation technique to avoid shame, punishment, or any other negative treatment. Today, the number of people relaxing their hair, whether due to internalized racism or respectability politics, is dwindling. Black women and girls are boldly embracing their natural hair and resisting colonial oppression. However, this generation of students is not the first to wear their hair natural. There has always been a movement toward natural hair. 117 6.4 Generations of Naturals What I witnessed in Jamaica while carrying out this study was that the natural hair movement has gained significant traction. Black women and girls are boldly embracing their natural hair textures and resisting colonial beauty standards. While my initial surprise at the growing number of girls wearing natural hair to school might suggest that this is a new development, it is essential to recognize that this is not the first time Black people have embraced their natural hair. There has always been a movement toward natural hair, and its roots can be traced back long before the twenty-first century. The 1960s are credited with the rise of the modern Natural Hair Movement (Sherrow, 2023). This was the era of the Civil Rights and Black Power in the United States. Byrd and Tharps (2014) note that iconic figures like Angela Davis, Stokely Carmichael (who would become Kwame Ture in 1969), and the Black Panthers made the Afro a visual political statement in the United States, and it spread globally. Natural hair became a symbol of Black pride and anti-colonial resistance during the 1960s. These early expressions of natural hair were part of an ongoing resistance against the forced assimilation into European standards of beauty. The embrace of natural hair did not come without setbacks. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, the use of relaxers and perms became widespread, as many Black women conformed to European beauty standards in order to gain social mobility. The 2000s saw a resurgence of the natural-hair movement, largely fueled by social media platforms like YouTube and Instagram (Brown, 2018; Byrd & Tharp, 2014). Black women began sharing their hair journeys, offering tutorials on how to care for natural textures and creating communities of support. This digital space allowed people to find solidarity in their shared experiences and learn from each other’s challenges and triumphs. Celebrities like Solange Knowles, Lupita Nyong’o, and Tracee Ellis 118 Ross also played a significant role in normalizing natural hair in the mainstream (Byrd & Tharp, 2014), encouraging a new generation to embrace their curls, locs, and Afros. Sales of chemical relaxers have dropped 34 percent since 2009, while sales of “natural” hair care products have increased exponentially (Norwood, 2018). Jamaicans, too, have been pushing the boundaries. The Rastafari movement, for example, has long challenged colonial aesthetics and asserted natural hair as a spiritual and political expression of Black identity, liberation, and resistance against colonial oppression. In 2007, Zahra Redwood won the Ms. Jamaica Universe pageant competition and then represented Jamaica internationally in the Ms. Universe competition, proudly with her dreadlocks (see Figure 6.1). Several Jamaican pageant queens have proudly showcased their natural hair on the international stage, challenging the notion that beauty must adhere to Eurocentric beauty standards. Among them are Terri Karelle Reid, Miss Jamaica World 2005 (see Figure 6.2); Dr. Sanneta Myrie, Miss Jamaica World 2015 (see Figure 6.3); and Davina Bennett, Miss Jamaica Universe 2017 (see Figure 6.4). Their bold embrace of natural hair has garnered widespread attention and inspired many who once believed that beauty in pageantry could only conform to Western ideals. 119 Figure 6.1 Zahra Redwood, Miss Jamaica Universe 2007 Note. Zahra Redwood, crowned Miss Jamaica Universe 2007, the first Rastafarian to represent Jamaica in the international pageant. Source. Jamaica, 2007 Figure 6.2 Terri Karelle Reid, Miss Jamaica World 2005 Note. Terri-Karelle Reid, Miss Jamaica World 2005, who represented Jamaica at the Miss World competition wearing her natural Afro. Source. Johnson, 2023 120 Figure 6.3 Dr. Sanneta Myrie, Miss Jamaica World 2015 Note. Dr. Sanneta Myrie, Miss Jamaica World 2015, the first Miss World contestant to compete with dreadlocks. Source. Campbell, 2020 Figure 6.4 Davina Bennett, Miss Jamaica 2017 Note. Davina Bennett, Miss Jamaica 2017, proudly wearing her natural Afro during the Miss Universe competition. Source. Fasanella, 2017 - Allure The natural hair movement has been growing, and with a new generation of Black girls, the movement is proven to be stronger than ever. The reasons are varied and complex, but undoubtedly, one of the major factors in the new era of the Natural Hair Movement is the increase in social media usage. YouTube, TikTok, Pinterest, and Instagram have become hubs for natural hair influencers and enthusiasts who share tutorials, tips, and techniques for maintaining and styling Afro-textured hair. These are counterspaces in which Black femininities are celebrated and nurtured (Curington, 2024). Virtual communities provide a wealth of haircare knowledge on everything from moisturizing routines to protective styling. Online platforms and natural hair influencers help Black girls nurture their coily tresses while fostering a sense of solidarity among online communities. Some of the students in the study noted that they engage with natural hair influencers to learn about hair care. 121 6.5 Conclusion Today, an increasing number of Black girls are joyfully rocking their natural hair and pushing back at the institutional policies that seek to suppress Black hair. The narrative is shifting. As Fallon puts it, “It’s normal to have curly hair. Creaming [relaxing one’s hair] isn’t a rule, isn’t a law.” Black women and girls are fighting against the negative stereotypes attached to natural hair by using positive hair language to describe its curls, coils, and kinks. They are adopting a counter-discourse to remove the stigma of natural hair as unmanageable. They are practicing everyday hair resistance by proudly wearing their natural hair in settings that seek to suppress Black features. By choosing to embrace their natural hair, the students take control of their self-image and assert their ability to define beauty and identity on their own terms, rather than accepting the imposed norms of the colonizer. Anti-colonialism is about changing the narrative and reclaiming one’s history, knowledge, and way of being in spite of colonial imposition (Dei, 2008; Wane, 2006). The stories reveal how Black girls at Sankofa High School are exercising their agency to resist colonial norms and challenge negative perceptions of Black hair. The students are actively engaging in a decolonizing process, where they seek to free themselves from the mental shackles of colonial thinking that deem their natural coils as less desirable and not appropriate for school. The students’ decision to wear their natural hair disrupts the afterlife of formal colonial rule and the racial capitalist machinery that profits from the denigration of Black hair. The global beauty industry, estimated at billions of dollars (Rosen et al., 2015), benefits from the false narrative that Afro-textured hair is a problem to be fixed. It turns anti-Blackness into a profit, selling “solutions” for hair deemed unruly, unprofessional, and inappropriate. Cedric Robinson (1983) reminds us that capitalism is inherently racial, with a foundation built on the production 122 of racial hierarchies that enable exploitation and accumulation. Audre Lorde (1984) likewise suggests that Black women’s alienation from their own beauty is orchestrated and intentional, a mechanism of domination and exploitation that sustains the racial and gendered order. However, Black folks are not passively accepting colonial domination. The growing embrace of natural hair, with a decrease in relaxer sales by 26 percent between 2008 and 2013, and by 17 percent between 2006 and 2011 (Griffin & Lenzy, 2015, p. 26), reflects a widespread rejection of the notion that Black hair must be altered to be acceptable. By choosing to joyfully wear natural hair, the students are grounded in a deep reckoning with systems of harm. Through their hair choices, we see another iteration of Sharpe’s (2016) wake work as a practice of living and insisting on Black being in the hold of anti-Blackness. Wake work, in this respect, is also demonstrative of a rejection of the coloniality of femininity and a disruption of the economies that depend on commodification and psychological harm. In this ‘wake’, an increasing number of Black women and girls today are choosing to wear their hair in its natural state simply as a way of being. For many, the decision is less about making a political statement and more about self-acceptance (Johnson and Bankhead, 2014). By wearing their natural hair, they embody Marcus Garvey’s call to “remove the kinks from the mind,” through an inward shift that honours Black aesthetics. In this context, the students’ embrace of their natural hair must be read as a rupture in the local climate of anti-Blackness that Jamaica’s formal education seeks to uphold. Hair joy resists and persists. 123 Attas, R. (2024). What is Decolonization? 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