A Strategic Negotiation: Hard Wig Soft Life

When I was younger, Sundays were ritualistic hair days. I'd visit my aunt’s hair salon in East London, and wait around all day until she had a free slot to wash, blow dry and cornrow my hair for the school week ahead. I had cornrows long after they were deemed cool and had to beg my mum and aunt for a relaxer aged 15 years old. When they finally agreed, I rushed to the Afro Hair and Beauty shop, purchased a gleaming box of ORS Relaxer and blissfully smiled at the girl looking back up at me, with glossy, thick and bouncy relaxed hair. I returned to year 10 that autumn with broken off bob length stiff hair. Nothing like what was on the relaxer box. These moments hold profound meaning in our shared memories as Black women. Some of us may have been younger or older, but that physical and metaphorical sting of the relaxer has been felt by most of us.

Contemporary critical theory and cultural discourse have increasingly unpacked the meaning of Afro-textured hair. In the 20th century, literature and politics often framed Afro hair as a sociopolitical symbol, a site of resistance, a declaration of “Black is beautiful,” tied intimately to the emotional and public lives of Black women. I can’t help but notice a shift in this dialogue. We’re at a fascinating turning point in contemporary Black beauty politics. Wigs and weaves, once dismissed by some as mere assimilation tools, have taken on new meanings. In the era of the “hard wig, soft life” aesthetic, a laid frontal lace wig might signify not capitulation to Eurocentric norms but rather leisure and luxury. A class marker for upwardly mobile Black women living on their own terms. The tension between beauty as liberation or beauty as labor, between hypervisibility and invisibility, is a complex thread that we constantly pick at and unravel. This post explores that evolution, drawing on personal insight, theory, and the voices of Black thinkers such as Kobena Mercer, Shirley Anne Tate, and Tressie McMillan Cottom. These are women that all negotiate what it means to be seen, and to see themselves, through the lens of hair.

By the late 1960s, the Afro hairstyle itself had become emblematic of Black political consciousness. Worn by activists from Angela Davis in the U.S. to members of the British Black Panther Movement, the Afro was a radiant halo of resistance. It announced, without a word, a refusal to bow to the pressure that Black women “tame” their hair’s natural texture. As cultural theorist Kobena Mercer famously put it, “all black hairstyles are political” because each style is a response to historical forces that invest Black hair with social and symbolic meaning. There was no neutral ground: how one wore Black hair in that time was making a statement, intentionally or not. Even attempts to be “apolitical” were read through a political lens, because the backdrop was white supremacy’s insistence that Black hair was inferior unless subdued.

It’s important to note that not all Black women of the era wore natural styles – many continued to straighten or cover their hair, but that too carried complex meaning. In Britain and America earlier in the century, straightening one’s hair (with pressing combs or chemical relaxers) was often seen as a survival strategy.

By the late 20th century, Afro hair had solidified its place as a potent sociopolitical symbol. It could represent Black pride and resistance or the internal conflicts wrought by racism. In all cases, Black women’s emotional and public lives were bound up with their hair. The very publicness of hair meant that any Black woman stepping outside was presenting a narrative. At times, I’ve felt this acutely in my own life: stepping out with a new style can feel like armor or exposure. A twist-out or an afro might draw compliments from other Black women but curious stares or intrusive touches from others. A sleek sew-in might make me feel “put together” in professional settings, yet I wonder if I’ve betrayed my natural self. This constant negotiation is something generations of Black women before me knew well. Their hair was a conversation with the world about who they were allowed to be and who they insisted on being.

There’s increasing recognition that when Black women straighten their hair or wear extensions, it isn’t automatically self-hatred or capitulation. Shirley Anne Tate, a Black British sociologist, reflects on her own decades-long hair journey and notes that when she straightened her hair, it “did not mean that I doubted my Black identity, or was ashamed of my natural hair texture, or that I had fallen prey to the ‘straight hair rule’ of white supremacy.” She embodies a view that has become more accepted among Black women today: choosing to relax or cover our hair can be a matter of fashion, convenience, or personal style without automatically signaling internalized racism. In fact, Kobena Mercer had astutely observed back in the 1980s that the dichotomy of “natural vs straight” was too simplistic. He urged us to deconstruct the idea that going natural is the only enlightened route for Black people. Even natural styles require effort and artistry. As Mercer notes, there is “nothing ‘natural’” about Afro hairstyles in the sense of being unstyled or effortless; they involve “a lot of care and very precise procedures”. In short, all hair choices involve styling and thus reflect some degree of cultural negotiation. Black women have always been inventing and reinventing ourselves, and our hairstyles are part of that inventiveness. Wearing a wig or sew-in weave can be a creative transformation, not necessarily a desire to be white. It might be about exploring alter-egos, protecting one’s natural hair from damage, or simply the joy of change.

Wigs and weaves (once solely seen as attempts at assimilation) have evolved into markers of socioeconomic class and symbols of upward mobility. They are no longer viewed as simply attempts to assimilate. Wigs and weaves have become entangled with class and the performance of luxury. This is clearly captured in the popular term “hard wig, soft life.” The phrase emerged from online banter noticing a trend: certain wealthy or upwardly mobile Black women always sporting a Hermes Birkin Bag, a 10-motif Van Cleef necklace, were always complete with a carelessly applied wig, raw bundles unstyled and unkept. This colloquial statement has a cultural meaning: upward social mobility for many Black women is associated with distancing yourself from generally acceptable ideas Black beauty performance. A Black woman sporting an obviously artificial or dated wig might nonetheless be living her best, most pampered life. Fashion historian Shelby Ivey Christie notes that the discourse around “bad wigs” is less about the hair itself and more about social context: how people interpret aesthetic choices as clues to a woman’s social circles and status.

This new beauty economy, amplified by platforms like Instagram and TikTok, has made hair not merely about appearing "done," but specifically about appearing expensively done. It's become less about aligning with whiteness explicitly, and more about visually distancing oneself from poverty or perceived working-class aesthetics. In an era of melt-down lace fronts and pricey human-hair installs, a lopsided or synthetic wig might imply that a woman isn’t plugged into the elite Black beauty community. Maybe she doesn’t have a good stylist, or she’s not bothering to adhere to the unwritten rules of Black hair perfection. And yet, here she is with a soft life? Perhaps financially secure enough not to care what other Black people think of her hair. It’s an intriguing subversion: traditionally, we’ve seen polished Eurocentric hair as a way to access jobs or status, but now we have examples of successful Black women who don’t conform to the latest hair expectations and still thrive. Their very ability to wear an unblended wig without losing social capital hints at the insulation that wealth (or proximity to it) provides. Is financial comfort the only thing in the way of releasing ourselves and each other from the impossibly high standards of black and black hairstyling?

My previous hairstyling practice has deepened my insight into these questions. I’ve seen firsthand how my clients use wigs and weaves not as instruments of assimilation, but as expressions of identity and personal freedom. I know that the contemporary use of wigs and weaves in Black communities goes beyond assimilation. It’s a strategic negotiation, as sociologist Tressie McMillan Cottom explains: "Beauty can be a kind of capital. Like other forms of capital, it can be converted into financial, social, and cultural resources" (McMillan Cottom, Thick, 2019).

Black women relentlessly invest in beauty labor in an effort to claim some of that capital for themselves. There’s an entire industry that profits from this. The global Black hair care market is worth billions, built on Black women’s pursuit of both self-expression and social acceptance. Our aesthetic choices are not only personal but feed into a huge economic system. Every product promising “smooth edges” or “defined curls” is selling a solution to the pressures we face. This labour (beauty labour) is the time, money, and effort spent to meet beauty norms. For Black women, this labor can be especially intensive: the meticulous wash day routine for natural hair, the careful maintenance of a HD lace frontal, or the literal hours spent getting box braids installed. Some of us find empowerment in that process (as a ritual of self-care or creativity), but it can also be exhausting. Is it liberating to sit in a salon for 8 hours getting tiny braids, or is it oppressive? I’ve felt both the happiness of being tended to by a Black hairstylist and the angst of spending £1000 on a new wig because I felt I “needed” that look for a work function. Beauty capitalism is insidious; it tells us we need to constantly improve ourselves, then sells us the means. The upside today is we have more Black-owned brands and experts like Charlotte Mensah reclaiming the industry, so the profits and narratives aren’t solely controlled by others. Still, the fundamental dynamic Cottom highlights remains: beauty is a currency, and we are both consumers and collateral in that economy.

The question we must grapple with, therefore, isn't about choosing a "natural" versus "unnatural" hair aesthetic. Instead, it’s about critically examining what our hair choices communicate regarding our access to ease, luxury, and rest. Beauty practices in Black communities have always been relational, rooted in our history, shared survival, and collective memories. Our hair has been both the site of struggle and the space for communal joy.

I find it fascinating how, despite these tensions, communal spaces remain essential in navigating modern Black beauty politics. Spaces like traditional hair salons, long-standing Afro-Caribbean institutions such as Salon De Cleo’s and Ama’s Hair Salon in North London, remind us of hair’s enduring communal significance. These spaces aren’t just businesses; they're culturally vital places where women gather, share experiences, and collectively shape their identities. The older women I spoke to during my visits deeply understood the necessity of adapting to current beauty practices without losing the communal spirit of Black hair traditions. But today, their survival depends partly on adapting to the digital beauty market, bridging traditional methods with new, online hair trends. This adaptation demonstrates clearly how hair has become embedded within class distinctions. The hairstylist Nana at Salon De Cleo’s openly acknowledges that competing with younger, Instagram-savvy stylists demands embracing digital trends, despite the implicit class barriers these trends produce. "Soft life" aesthetics, marketed heavily online, redefine success as proximity to expensive consumption.

The intersection of capitalism, aesthetics, and race creates significant tension, but we shouldn't overlook the profound creativity and agency that wigs and weaves provide. Reflecting on the historical lens, such as the role Winifred Atwell’s Brixton salon played in Britain’s Afro hair scene in the 1950s, we understand that adaptation and reinvention have always been core to Black women's survival and flourishing in hostile environments. Hairstyles have always been tools of resistance, identity formation, and economic independence. What we are witnessing now is another complex, layered phase in this ongoing dialogue.

Personally, I find hope and excitement in these ambiguities. They speak to a living, evolving community continually redefining itself. My aunt’s salon, the resilience and creativity of online influencers and salon aunties alike, all these experiences demonstrate the ongoing, collective reshaping of Black beauty politics. Hair remains a communal, deeply intimate yet powerfully public way we grapple with our identity. I’m mindful of how I might be perceived, that hasn’t vanished – but I’m driven even more by how I want to feel. That, to me, is the quiet liberation of our era: reclaiming the narrative of our hair for ourselves. The meaning of Afro hair has expanded, not contracted. In the 20th century, it was a bold exclamation point in literature and politics – a symbol that often had to carry the weight of representing Black pride or pain. In the modern context, it’s become an entire vocabulary. A wig can mean a tool of assimilation or a badge of luxury. Natural hair can mean militant resistance or simply personal preference. The contexts are key. What hasn’t changed is that beauty and presentation are never neutral for Black women. As long as societal inequities and racial biases persist, our beauty choices will reverberate with meanings beyond aesthetics. But perhaps the biggest shift is internal: many of us have moved from asking “How do I make my hair acceptable?” to “How do I make my hair mine?”

As Black British women, our work now is not to reject or dismiss one form of beauty for another, but rather to interrogate and celebrate the richness, diversity, and contradictions inherent within our beauty traditions. Moving forward, it's essential we hold space for contradictions. We should acknowledge the creativity and freedom wigs provide, while critically engaging with the ways beauty capitalism also constrains and excludes. Our goal isn't to define or police Black beauty narrowly but rather to ensure it remains dynamic, complex, and inclusive.

Cobb, Jasmine Nichole, New Growth: The Art and Texture of Black Hair (Durham: Duke University Press, 2022)

Cottom, Tressie McMillan, Thick: And Other Essays (New York: The New Press, 2019)

Hansberry, Lorraine, A Raisin in the Sun (New York: Random House, 1959)
— see also A Raisin in the Sun: Symbols, SparkNotes, https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/raisin/themes/symbols/ [accessed 5 April 2025]

Lamptey-Mills, Naa, ‘What’s a Wig Got to Do with It? – Understanding the Hard Wig, Soft Life Trend’, Amaka Studio, 2024 https://www.amaka.studio/read/hard-wig-soft-life-trend-through-fashion-semiotics/ [accessed 5 April 2025]

McDermott, Mikai. "Black Hair Salons Are Keeping the Community Alive." The Face, 15 June 2023, https://theface.com/beauty/black-hair-salons-keep-community-alive-london-stylists-braids-silk-press. Photography by Jameela Elfaki

Mensah, Charlotte, Good Hair (London: Penguin Life, 2020)
— see also Georgia Murray, ‘Charlotte Mensah On Why Afro Hair Is A Political Statement’, Refinery29, 2020 https://www.refinery29.com/en-gb/charlotte-mensah-interview-afro-hair [accessed 5 April 2025]

Mercer, Kobena, ‘Black Hair/Style Politics’, New Formations, 3 (Winter 1987), 33–54
— see also Hair Story / History / Here Story, Chicago Shakespeare Theater https://www.chicagoshakes.com/education/for_teachers_and_students/teacher_resources/hair_story [accessed 5 April 2025]

Tate, Shirley Anne, Black Beauty: Aesthetics, Stylization, Politics (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009)
— see also Shirley Anne Tate, ‘Libidinal Economies of Black Hair: Subverting the Governance of Strands, Subjectivities and Politics’ (PDF) https://www.researchgate.net/publication/327981431_Libidinal_economies_of_black_hair [accessed 5 April 2025]

Walker, Alice, ‘Oppressed Hair Puts a Ceiling on the Brain’, speech at Spelman College, 1987
— see also Tina Opie, ‘My Ethnic Hair Journey: Ode to Alice Walker’, Forbes, 2019 https://www.forbes.com/sites/tinaopie/2019/02/25/my-ethnic-hair-journey-ode-to-alice-walker-oppressed-hair-be-gone/ [accessed 5 April 2025]