inch by inch: our obsession with long locks and who it leaves behind

in Black and natural hair communities, hair is never just hair.

Hair is never just hair, and nowhere is this more evident than within Black and natural hair communities. For Black people, hair transcends aesthetics; it is a potent symbol of identity, culture, and resistance. Yet, in conversations about hair health, self-acceptance, and embracing natural beauty, one topic consistently dominates: hair length.

Long hair has historically been associated with femininity, health, and beauty. In ancient Greece, it symbolised youth and vitality, a narrative that modern media continues to reinforce, today. 2011 study found that many people still associate long hair with health, fertility, and a woman’s investment in her appearance. For Black women, however, this standard is complex.

In pre-colonial African societies, hair length and intricate styles conveyed messages about social status, religion, and family heritage. Hair was far more than an accessory. Certain styles were reserved for specific ceremonies, while others denoted marital status, religious affiliation, or social rank. For example, in West Africa, the Yoruba and Fulani peoples developed intricate braiding techniques that required hours of skilled labour, transforming hairstyling into a bonding ritual for the community. However, colonisation imposed Western beauty ideals that deemed Black hair inferior, making “good hair” synonymous with length, straightness, and “manageability.” Natural Black hair was marginalised and described as “cotton,” in contrast to the “proper” hair of white people.

The natural hair movement gained traction in the late 20th century, emerging from the civil rights and Black power movements. Afro hairstyles became symbols of pride and resistance, with figures like Angela Davis and Nina Simone wearing their Afros as statements of political defiance and self-love.

By the early 2000s, the movement found a new lease of life online. Platforms such as YouTube and Instagram created spaces for Black women to share their experiences, styling tips, and product recommendations. However, this digital revival quickly focused on hair growth. The message was clear: long hair was the ultimate goal. But for many Black women, it was this message and pressure that lead to hair damage and being trapped in cycles of overconsumption and self-doubt.

Measuring Black hair by inches undermines its beauty—its versatility, resilience, and cultural significance. It also disregards the fact that Black hair grows outwards, not downwards.

For some Black women, growing long hair serves as a challenge to stereotypes about Black hair’s inability to grow, proving that it, too, can flourish. Author and cultural historian Emma Dabiri writes in Don’t Touch My Hair: “The idea that hair length equates to success or beauty is a remnant of the struggle for acceptance in a world designed to erase our identities.”

The beauty industry has capitalised on this fixation. Black haircare products—from growth oils to “Afro-friendly” ranges—have become a multibillion-pound market. Even Black celebrities such as Rihanna and Beyoncé have launched haircare lines. While these initiatives highlight the importance of representation, they also expose double standards. Beyoncé, for instance, was questioned about launching a haircare line because she “always” wears wigs. In response, she posted a video showing her natural hair, leaving many asking why Black women must constantly prove themselves.

This fixation isn’t unique to Black communities. Media, particularly Disney, has long equated long hair with femininity and desirability. Iconic characters like Rapunzel, Ariel, and Elsa reinforce the idea that long, flowing hair is a marker of beauty, magic, and independence. While enchanting, these narratives subtly perpetuate the belief that long hair is an aspirational standard, contributing to insecurities among young girls with different textures and lengths.

For Black girls, this pressure starts early. Amina, a mother of a teenage daughter, recalls her child asking why her hair wasn’t “long and flowy” like her friends’. “It broke my heart because I could see the insecurity society was placing on her so young,” she shares.

Whenever any feature becomes particularly desirable in the culture, there are usually ties to class and power. In the case of long hair, Western society has invested heavily in obscuring the work and maintenance that go into achieving such a look, upholding the myth of the ‘eternal feminine’. The ideal of long hair as a marker of beauty often disregards the daily labour—both literal and emotional—that Black women undertake to meet this standard. By idealising hair that often requires time-consuming effort, the narrative shifts the burden of perfection onto the individual, reinforcing a system of beauty that is inherently tied to power and class. The work involved in maintaining this "desirable" feature is masked, which serves to uphold the patriarchal fantasy of effortless femininity, often at the expense of women.

Celebrities such as Lupita Nyong’o, Cynthia Erivo, and Janelle Monáe have gone against these standards by celebrating short, natural Black hair. Their red-carpet appearances challenge the notion that femininity and beauty require length - it sends a powerful message that hair’s value lies in its authenticity, not its inches.

Digital sculptor Rayvenn Shaleigha D’Clark, who often explores Afro hair in her work, reflects:

“As a Black woman with a shaved head, I have an endless catalogue of horror stories about the shocking lack of self-control strangers exhibit both online and in person when they encounter a woman with this hairstyle. On the other end of the natural hair movement spectrum, women with short hair face similar harassment—over-sexualisation, unsolicited touching, and intrusive remarks about their personal choices. For me, choosing and maintaining a shaved head has been one of the most eye-opening experiences I’ve ever had. In my art, I grapple with the realities of Afro hair and its representation in sculptural form. My most recent large-scale commission, Black Renaissance at Freedom Monument Sculpture Park, demanded countless hours to ensure the dimensionality of the models' hair honoured the rich diversity of Black hair in this context.”

The standardisation of beauty, particularly around hair length, has a profound impact on Black women’s mental health. The constant pressure to conform to an unattainable or artificial ideal often leads to feelings of inadequacy, low self-esteem, and emotional fatigue. This pressure is exacerbated by the societal devaluation of Black hair in its natural state, perpetuating the harmful narrative that it is less desirable. As a result, many Black women experience heightened stress, anxiety, and insecurity, often stemming from the internalisation of Eurocentric beauty standards that marginalise Black features, including hair texture. This combination of external expectations and internalised biases creates a deeply damaging cycle that impacts mental well-being.

Ultimately, while the natural hair movement has empowered many, its focus on length often mirrors the very Eurocentric ideals it aims to reject. As Brixton-based stylist Gloria Barrett explains, “Longer hair doesn’t necessarily mean healthier hair. We need to start focusing on strong, well-nourished hair, rather than chasing inches.”

As the Black haircare market continues to grow into a multibillion-pound industry, a shift in focus from length to health is overdue. Celebrating Black hair in all its forms—short, coily, braided, or natural—requires breaking free from the limitations imposed by colonialism, capitalism, and mainstream media. Only then can Black hair simply be what it is: hair.

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who wrote this?

Zeynab Mohamed is a London-based freelance writer whose writing explores the intersection of beauty, identity, and culture. Her writing has appeared in ELLE, Dazed and Women’s Health but find her unfiltered musings on her substack, Face Value.