They say your hair is the frame for the picture of your face. As a writer, I feel that my hair has been the foreword to each chapter of my life's story.
Growing up multiracial in a white family and community during the 1970s, my hair was always a topic of conversation. Family, strangers, and even people at school talked about it, especially since my prep school straw bonnet wouldn't fit over my Afro. To keep it on, my dad sewed in an elastic band that I wore under my chin. No hairdresser knew how to cut my hair, so my white dad would cut it with the bacon scissors in the kitchen. He did his best to make it feel special, and it is still one of my fondest memories.
In my mid-teens, I switched to a state comprehensive school, and my hair remained a talking point. This time, however, the comments were less positive: "Crazy," "Wild," "Bush," and "Loud."
As a nerdy, bookish teen, I didn't like these words and deeply wanted to fit into my new school and environment. That is when I started perming and chemically relaxing my hair. I felt I needed to shrink my hair to diminish my perceived personality. I just wanted to blend in.
When I was 17 and began modelling, my hair became a positive calling card. Its volume added to my height, which was beneficial since I am only five foot eight, and fashion shows required a minimum height of five foot nine. Most of the models I walked with were at least two inches taller than me.
When I turned 30, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease—Lupus SLE—and also experienced Discoid lupus, which caused widespread circular bald patches on my scalp. Not only did I lose my job as a model, but I also felt like I lost my sense of identity, beauty, and connection to my racial identity. I no longer knew who I was.
In my mid-30s, after experiencing significant hair loss, I decided to wear a wig. Many people questioned why I didn’t choose one that replicated my Afro hair. I opted for a straight, wavy wig because I had a deep connection with my curls and didn’t want to try to replace them—it felt dishonourable. It's similar to how I wouldn't get another ginger cat if my gorgeous ginger cat died; nothing could replace him. I was open and vocal about wearing a wig, and wanted to experiment with a new identity, especially because I felt my chronic illness had already taken so much from me.
In my late 30s, it was interesting to observe how society and the media perceived me while I was acting. Despite being part Jamaican, Indian, and white, I rarely received roles typically seen as mixed-race or black because I didn't have curly hair. Instead, I was frequently cast in ethnically ambiguous, brunette, Arab, and Indian roles.
Now that I'm 50, I still often wear a wig. Even though my hair has grown back, it has a different curl pattern, and I'm uncertain about how I feel about it or what this new 'frame' means for me.
My hair only began to grow back during the lockdown, so I'm still learning how to express myself with it. However, I continue to rely on the safety of a wig, as some areas of my hair are still thinner than others, and I'm quite self-conscious about it.
To any woman on her hair journey, I would say: do what's right for you in that moment, honour your integrity, and choose whatever gives you strength. I have now decided not to chemically treat my hair to alter its curl. Instead, I'm choosing to embrace the new curls that have emerged and to be kinder to myself.
I have realised that my hair does not define my entire identity. My words and actions define who I am, and my hair is simply a form of expression that I choose to express on any given day.
I have realised that my hair does not define my entire identity. My words and actions define who I am, and my hair is simply a form of expression that I choose to express on any given day.
As a busy mom, business owner, and author, practicality is key. I don't always have time to perfect my curls, so I'll often just pop on a wig for meetings and errands. Also, living in the rainy, damp hills of Northern England doesn't exactly favour a fro. So, on sunny or dry days, I'll let my natural hair out, and on other days, I'll oil it, lightly braid it, and protect it under a wig.
I have my wigs custom-made, with most of the hair on tracks attached to a net, allowing my natural hair to breathe underneath. This way, I can remove the wig in the evening and reapply oil to my hair.
I only use organic products on both my natural hair and wigs, although I do colour my hair.
I have realised that my hair is stronger when my overall well-being is in good shape—when my gut is healthier, my anxiety is lower, and I manage to shield myself from the stress of modern life. I achieve this through established routines like Yoga Nidra, maintaining a regular bedtime, and eating plenty of healthy fats.
Just as I change my clothing style and makeup, I also change my hair. I am so grateful for discovering wigs, as they’ve relieved the pressure on my hair and allowed me to relax. I believe this has been a significant factor in my hair growing back.
Now, at 50, I finally feel like I have given myself permission to express my own story through my hair, rather than conforming to everyone's expectations on how I should present myself because of my racial mix or profession. This new hair that has grown back represents another journey I am eager to embark on, and I'm enjoying it. I'm glad I can now have fun with it, embrace it, and love and care for it, rather than trying to control it.
Liberty Mills is a mother of two and a grandmother who defied the odds by conceiving naturally and giving birth to her second daughter just two weeks before her 45th birthday. Despite being told her chances of conceiving with her own eggs were less than one per cent, she transformed her fertility journey through lifestyle and dietary changes within three months.
Now, as an Integrative Health Coach specialising in Fertility Fitness and Hormones, Liberty dedicates herself to helping women and couples become fertility fit, whether for natural conception or preparing for IVF.
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