I have stalked the Hair Debate in Ghana the way a cat stalks the scent of a mouse—patiently, silently, with eyes that never blink and claws that remember their purpose. My steps are deliberate, cautious not to startle the prey of reason, for every opinion on this matter is as slippery as light on glass. Yet each time I near the truth, it slips away like a shadow mocking its pursuer.
I’ll admit it: I am frustrated. I tread as one trespassing in a sacred dominion—a man peering into a woman’s kingdom, moved by curiosity, restrained by reverence. And still, I walk also as a father, hoping to spoon a little sense into his daughter without stirring rebellion, and as a lover, praying that fortune falls softly into the laps of his beloveds.
For hair, in Africa and her far-flung kin, is not mere adornment; it is scripture written in keratin, a genealogy of rebellion and grace. Each strand hums with ancestral voltage, carrying whispers from grandmothers who wrapped defiance in cornrows and queens who hid messages of escape beneath their plaits. To touch a woman’s hair, or even to speak of it, is to enter a realm where history and vanity entwine like lovers in eternal argument.
From a safe distance, I watch the nation convulse over the question—should our public high school daughters shear their crowns in uniform humility to build some camaraderie and national identity, or let their tresses flow in the wind of self-expression? The debate crackles across salons and barbershops, over WhatsApp threads and radio frequencies. Hairdressers turn prophets, barbers turn philosophers, and each comb stroke becomes an act of theology.
In every twist, every cut, every chemical burn or shea-slicked curl, I see the same trembling question: What does it mean to be beautiful—and who sold us the mirror we’re using to decide? Some chase after manes, even the shimmer of foreign manes, hoping imported gloss will wash away old doubts. The elders, bless them, guard the temple of simplicity as if virtue were measured in inches of hair. Between the two, our daughters stand bewildered—trimmed and polished for battles no one can quite name.
So I stand in wonder, both enamored and uneasy. For beauty, once ours, now stands at the border between memory and mimicry. And I fear that in polishing our reflections for the world to see, we may one day glance into the mirror—and not recognize the face staring back.
(Image: A fresher at Yaa Asantewaa Girls’ Senior High School looks visibly distraught after trimming her hair as part of the school’s enrollment requirements.)
Right has made her beautiful.
Wow, Narmer this write-up is good. I didn’t know you are such a good poet. I’ve made countless attempts to articulate the situation, but the words fail me every time. Seeing this my beautiful daughter so sad cuts me deeply, making it agonizing to weigh my love against the potential good of a decision I’m still debating.
We feel each other’s pain. Don’t we? The vacillation is real, not imagined. Whatever you decide for your beauty, the gods will not rage; they have seen too many mortals stumble over the same questions. A little grace, here and there, for ourselves—that is the only cure the Ancestors ever prescribed.
The Hair Debate, as you call it, will haunt us forever. I think that deep down we feel insecure about our hair. Those who want to cut it, don’t want to see it and those who want to see it, want more than just natural hair. Perhaps the tragedy of it is that this debate will continue to rear its ugly head in every institution for young girls – to cut short or to allow a diversity of hairstyles.