At 14 years old I started growing out my hair and was proud to be sporting an afro for the first time in my life! I was sat in maths class talking to my friends and I heard snickering behind me. I turned around, thinking innocently there was a joke I missed and wanting to join in. When my head was turned I was met with a loud gasp from my friend next to me. I turned back swiftly and asked what was wrong. She started tugging on my hair. . . it was chewing gum.

I stared hard into the blue eyes of the boy who was responsible, which only made him seem to find it funnier and laugh harder. Hearing the commotion, the teacher came over to deal with the situation and tried to get the gum out but it was clear that it was lodged in and would need to be cut out with scissors.

When asked why he did it, the response was a nonchalant, “I didn’t know chewing gum would stick to that kind of hair. I wanted to see what would happen.” The end result? A quick chastising and a, “don’t do it again” while I was sent to reception to get a chunk of my hair cut out with scissors.

Sam, Warwick

"Ew Matilda, what HAVE you done with your hair?!”

This was the reaction 11-year-old me received when I skipped into school on a Friday morning, sporting the new Bantu knots I’d just learned how to do. I wasn’t confident enough to try this hairstyle again for another three years and when I did, my white hockey coach told me that I must be “very confident to wear that hairstyle outside.” The first time I had box braids, my head of year thought it was appropriate to caress my hair without consent.

In my experience, hair discrimination can be forceful but it can also be sly. It leaves you with a weight on your chest and forces you to retrace the steps of your day to find what led you there. These constant microaggressions, the small things that build and build, stoked a fire in me and led me to the Halo campaign. I want other Black girls to understand themselves and their hair on their terms, undefined by those around them.

Matilda, Dulwich

Every now and then, it comes up in conversation that I purposely avoid interacting with many of the people I was friends with in Sixth Form. The simple explanation is this: my hair. See, the people I was friends with always had something to say about my Afro hair. They constantly questioned if my hair was real (a running joke), with every change they would inform me whether or not they liked it (I never asked), and they would often stick their fingers in my hair for a feel (they never asked). It was suffocating being around them.

By the time I got to Sixth Form I had already internalised society’s negative views about my hair texture. The damage done to the view of myself is something I struggle with to this day. I still have a lot of unlearning to do in terms of what I see as acceptable, presentable and professional. I have good days and bad days. But ultimately, the hair that grows out of my head should not be up for critique - not in relation to my ability to work, study, or exist.

Jemmar, Brixton

I’m involved in the Halo Campaign because as a young Black girl my hair has always represented me, always spoken for me, even if I didn’t want it to. Our hair is a constant force in our life, it deems how people perceive us, as “well kept” or “nappy” or “ratchet”. Sadly, it is more often the latter two. Our hair is usually seen as a negative feature, something uncontrollable, loud, and wild. Reflective of how negatively we are considered in society. To many, it is a symbol of a lack of discipline, something we are unfortunate to be “cursed” with.

But it’s not. Black hair is versatile, beautiful, and professional. It deserves to be regarded as that. My hair is made up of castor, olive, and other essential oils. And while it isn’t flowing down to my back, it is strong and tall. It doesn’t block the view - it is the view. My hair is mine; it grows out of my head and cannot break a dress code purely by existing. School is supposed to be a place for learning and growth. Why should they have the right to control the way I choose to wear my halo? I should feel proud of it, everywhere, and this campaign will be the start of that.

Nakieah, South London

I've always been taught to be proud of my hair, that my hair is an extension of my personality and is a manifestation of my heritage. I've always been taught to look after and nurture my hair as if it were my own child. My family have always seen the beauty in my hair, and they, like so many others, believe that our hair is more than just strands on our head but that it's capable of telling a story.

So if we were told these things about our hair from the people that we love, why does society see my hair as ‘messy’ or ‘unkempt’? Why do I feel riddled with insecurity and dread when wearing a new protective style? I'm scared what my peers will say, what teachers will think, what assumptions people will make of me. I find it alarming that the place we should be receiving an education has become somewhere that is so intent on stripping away our individuality.

I believe that this campaign will encourage Black students everywhere to take pride in their hair and for schools to see the beauty in diversity. Black students deserve to feel empowered by their hair, without the fear of judgement or punishment. Schools should celebrate Afro-textured hair and Blackness, so that we no longer feel stigmatised.

Kaisha, South London

Even as a Black person, hair discrimination is something I wasn’t aware of and I am angry, shocked, and embarrassed. I straightened my hair for most of my life because I thought it was ‘too big’ and ‘unmanageable’ and frankly not desirable because of systemically racist societal expectations.

I only began to understand the issues whilst at university, away from home. I was a Black person in a white city. No one could relate to my hair struggles. On nights out, I was often asked questions, as my hair would escape into its natural state, frizzy and big, ‘Why is your hair so big?’ or ‘Why is it so messy?’ I was ashamed of these questions and of my hair. They painted my natural hair as something undesirable, comparing it to a standard that I could never match. I made sure to straighten my hair even more for nights out. This was damaging for my self-esteem and lead me to feel isolated because of how different my hair was to the other people at university. My hair was damaged, and I didn’t know how to look after it – I tried to force it to be something it cannot.

It was my sister who took up watching videos on how to manage mixed Black hair, and I found someone else who could relate to my struggle. She soon changed my perspective on how I felt about my hair. We learnt how to comb it properly, how to moisturise it and look after it, and to embrace our hair. My next step on this journey is joining the Halo Collective – change is needed.

Steph, Croydon

Wash. Detangle. Straighten

Wash. Detangle. Relax

Wash. Detangle. Cry of frustration, because my hair wouldn't succumb to what I wanted it to be. . . tamed.

After years of breakage, I sought a new approach. I would smother my unruly curls in gel so not one mischievous free-spirited strand escaped. I would pile it on to avoid the, ''You need to learn how to do your hair properly'' comments that were hurled at me.

Shortly after, the 'Naturalista' realm of the internet barrelled into my life. It taught me that my hair was nothing to be ashamed of, that I still had time to restore what was once almost erased. It liberated such an important part of my identity and my heritage. Soon enough, I was sharing with all my friends and family what I had learnt about hair types, protective styles, and everything associated with the word ‘Afro’. 

Halo is not just a campaign to me. It's a revolution. It's a fight back against all of the forces that tell us who and how we should be. Our school and workplace environments should reflect and celebrate our identities and how we feel about ourselves. We know our hair is powerful, we also know how versatile and beautiful it is and I will not stop until that is acknowledged. Halo is a movement and I'm finally ready to show the world how powerful our kinks, curls and protective styles can be.

Katiann, South London

During the summer of Year 9 I did ‘the big chop’. I was excited to go into school on the first day back at school with my newly sprouted coils formed into my TWA (teeny weeny afro). For the first time in my life, my hair didn’t smell like burnt straightener with the mask of a strong perfume conditioner. It smelt like Jamaican castor oil and shea butter and DAX hair cream. 

Even though the first day back to school was a frosty autumnal day, my hair protected my scalp from the cold British wind. There was something comforting about that. But when I arrived at school the first thing I heard was “oh my days, you look like a boy”. This was light work - to be expected from the immature boys perpetuating misogynoir.

What actually spun me was being called to the office of my Dean of Year, a stoic Sierra Leonean woman, who sat across from me and told me I had to take the hairband out of my hair. I was stunned into silence. This was merely the first instance of hair policing that I experienced at school, there were numerous more times where Black students had to alter our hair to fit in with the arbitrary dress code. If my school had adopted the Halo code when I was 14, we could have simply focused on our education. This is why I’m an organiser with the Halo Collective. I don’t want Black children to experience this any longer and the changes start in institutions like schools and workplaces.

Edwina, Surrey Quays