It has been burned. Snapped. Pulled. Bleached and shaved. If I had treated any other body part this badly, people would call it self-harm. 


The first time I mistreated my mane, I was 14 years old. My best friend’s mother looked at me with sorrow swelling in her eyes. It was my father’s funeral, and she asked her daughter if I’d dyed my hair as a reaction to his death. We belly laughed at the notion, our naive teenage giggles betraying our youthful inability to process the severity of bereavement.


Ready to join The Flock?

When you join The Flock, you pay it forward. Every paid subscription generates a second for a woman on reduced income, ensuring we remain advertising-free and accessible to all.

Want to support us? Subscribe below for just £4.99 a month and get your first 14 days free. Can’t afford that right now? We'll be reopening our waitlist for paid forward memberships soon, so watch this space.

Got a gift card to redeem? Click here.

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Share this
Back to category