Part Six: Hair, Access, and the Architecture of Black Advancement
You can tell a lot about a people by the way they dress their hair. Throughout the African diaspora, hair has functioned as a tactile archive – a way to signal community, spiritual beliefs and social status. Under slavery and later under Jim Crow, that archive was often policed or erased. In Louisiana, for example, the Tignon Laws of 1786 required Black women to cover their hair to signal their inferior status. During the U.S. Reconstruction era (roughly 1865‑1877), society imposed grooming norms that equated straight, smooth hair with respectability. For African Americans trying to survive harsh racial codes, hair became both a potential escape route and a target. The straightening comb (often called a hot comb) – first patented by French stylist Marcel Grateau in the late 1800s and later refined by Black women like Annie Turnbo Malone – let people temporarily alter tight curls to pass inspections. Chemical relaxers, accidentally discovered by Black inventor Garrett A. Morgan in 1909 while looking for a lubricant for sewing needles, promised a longer‑lasting smooth texture. These tools were born of necessity and assimilation, yet they also gave rise to a multibillion‑dollar Black beauty industry.
Beyond Madam Walker
Much of mainstream lore centres Madam C.J. Walker as the first Black millionaire. Walker was brilliant: she built a national sales network for her “Wonder Hair Grower,” trained thousands of women, and used her wealth to support anti‑lynching campaigns. But she was one link in a longer chain. Annie Turnbo Malone, born in 1877 in southern Illinois, experimented with scalp treatments and manufactured one of the earliest hot combs. Malone’s Poro College in St. Louis taught hair science and business to scores of Black women, including Walker herself. Sarah Spencer Washington opened the Apex School of Scientific Beauty Culture in 1919; Christina Jenkins patented a hair‑weaving technique in 1951 that would eventually allow for the protective sew‑in. Even Garrett Morgan, better known for inventing the gas mask, used profits from his relaxer business to finance other inventions.
Brands that stayed Black
The industry they created still includes family‑owned stalwarts. Luster Products (makers of Pink Lotion) began in Chicago in 1957 when barber Fred Luster Sr. concocted a moisturizer for clients. Today Luster Products remains a Black‑owned manufacturer with U.S. plants. Bronner Brothers started in 1947 as a hair show in Atlanta and grew into a multimillion‑dollar enterprise producing shampoos, relaxers and hosting one of the largest trade shows in Black beauty. McBride Research Laboratories launched Design Essentials in 1990, developing salon‑grade moisturizers, shampoos and chemical treatments; the company is still family‑run and manufactures products in the United States. Blue Magic, a grease beloved in the 1970s, traces its roots to J. Strickland & Co.; while not always Black‑owned, it has a long history in Black communities. Regional brands like Royal Crown, Taliah Waajid, Mielle Organics and Uncle Funky's Daughter were also started by Black entrepreneurs. Many of these products are sold in beauty supply stores that cater specifically to textured hair; others ship globally via online retailers. Their longevity underscores that Black families have built haircare empires spanning generations.
Styles as geography
Braids, twists, cornrows, locs and wraps do more than decorate the head – they are maps of diaspora. Cornrows, with roots in West and Central Africa, were worn by enslaved women and men; in some stories they were braided with seeds or patterns that referenced escape routes. Box braids and Fulani braids trace lineages to people such as the Fulani in the Sahel. Twists (two‑strand, flat or Senegalese) and Bantu knots reflect the artistry of the Congo region. Press‑and‑curl hairdos and relaxed bobs in the mid‑20th century symbolized modernity and middle‑class aspirations, while afros in the 1960s and 1970s signaled political resistance. Today, wash‑and‑go curls, twist‑outs, locs, wigs and weaves coexist, reflecting both cultural pride and personal style. There is no single correct way to wear Black hair; the beauty lies in choice.
The cost of access: licensing and discrimination
As the industry professionalized, states introduced cosmetology licensing laws. Originally these laws were meant to ensure hygienic standards. Over time they became barriers. To legally braid or twist hair in many states, practitioners had to complete hundreds of hours of cosmetology school focused largely on cutting and chemical treatments rather than natural styling. The cost of these programs created a paywall that kept traditional braiders – often immigrants or unlicensed community stylists – out of the formal economy. Activists spent decades fighting these requirements, arguing that braiding is a cultural practice distinct from cosmetology. Several states, including Georgia, Texas and New York, have since created separate natural hair styling licenses or abolished licensing for braiders altogether.
Discrimination hasn’t vanished. Grooming policies in workplaces and schools have historically banned afros, braids, locs and dreadlocks under the guise of “professionalism.” Court cases in the 1980s and 1990s upheld employers’ ability to police hair. In response, advocates launched the CROWN Act (Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair), a legislative effort that bans hair discrimination. Since 2019, twenty‑plus U.S. states and several municipalities have passed CROWN Act laws; more are pending. These laws remind us that hair is still policed, and our freedoms are fragile.
Texture politics and the licensed vs. unlicensed debate
Hair in Black communities isn’t just about style; it’s about politics of texture. Terms like “good hair” have long created hierarchies that privilege looser curls and European aesthetics. Texturism can influence hiring, relationships and self‑esteem. The rise of relaxers in the mid‑20th century made straight hair an employability standard, and parents often applied chemicals to children’s hair to help them “fit in.” The natural hair movement of the 2000s reclaimed coils and kinks, but tensions remain. Salons using chemicals and heat argue that they preserve versatility, while natural stylists emphasize health and cultural pride. Underneath this debate lies another: whether hair artistry requires state oversight. Licensed cosmetologists argue that training protects clients; unlicensed braiders counter that they are carrying on ancestral traditions without harsh chemicals. The resulting “war of the roses” – chemical vs. natural, licensed vs. unlicensed – reflects deeper struggles over autonomy, class and access.
Toward a future rooted in history
Understanding this history grounds the conversation in more than trends. From the hot comb to the crochet hook, from Poro College to YouTube tutorials, Black people have always innovated to care for themselves and each other. That innovation created wealth for pioneers like Annie Turnbo Malone and Madam Walker, sustained family‑owned brands like Luster Products and Bronner Brothers, and continues with new companies run by millennials. At the same time, oppressive grooming codes and licensing regimes remind us that hair remains a site of control. The work of activists passing the CROWN Act and deregulating braiding is part of a long continuum of resisting policing and asserting autonomy. Our hair carries the weight of grandmothers and great‑grandmothers who passed down techniques even when laws tried to stop them. It’s more than fashion; it’s a record of survival and imagination.
