The first birthday wish I remember making was when I was about 7-years-old. I wished for Princess Hair™. Long and flowing, thick and silky, Princess Hair™. Unobtainable, type 1B, Western beauty standard Princess Hair™. Not the afro-ed, not kinky, Princess Hair™. Hair that was only realistically dreamt of by my Caucasian counterparts; who, as I have since discovered, were also holding their breath on this wish and turning blue in the process.

As perpetuated by the child friendly versions of the Brothers Grim tales, Princess Hair™ was the original myth, the definition of good and luscious hair. It was the algorithm for what made a person likeable, desirable and love at first sight-able. Most importantly, it was the formula that helped make a woman beautiful. Lots of little girls wanted Princess Hair™ and I was no exception.

Thankfully for some, Walt Disney was a kind and giving man and awarded each little human either their own regional princess or a somewhat lookalike version. The Disney OG eight.

For those of Native American decent, Disney gave the gift of Pocahontas. For my Middle Eastern queens, Princess Jasmine, while Mulan empowered East Asia. For the little girls with Eurocentric features, of course an abundance was given: Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Cinderella and Belle. And to top it off, redheaded beauties were even given Ariel.

Everyone had a princess they could relate to, everyone except the little girls that looked like me. Incomparable in both skin tone and hair. In fact, at that time the closest a famous Disney tale had gotten to Black representation was the Lion King.

Now the Lion King is one of my all-time favourites, but my aunt had a point when she reminded me that when Disney finally chose to make a film about Black people, they made them animals.

Just let that sit with you…

As I turned 11, my wishes turned to prayers as I asked God first for long hair. I needed to allow my hair to grow and so I adopted various braiding styles until finally, the day came when I did what many Black girls often do: I relaxed it. The chemical straightener often burning my scalp in the process.

I remember wanting to sit in the chair for as long as possible so my hair would straighten properly, my hairdresser easing the burning with a spray to stop me from getting up too soon.

I also remember burning so badly that scabs formed around one side of my hairline, preventing me from brushing my hair into place; my scalp later bleeding when I tried to free my trapped hair.

Oh, and then there was the time a hairdresser used a relaxer too strong for my hair and it all broke off. LOL.

I was upset, truly, but clearly not enough because when the time came around again I would sit back in that hairdresser’s chair, ready for my scalp to burn, forever telling myself that the imposed beauty standard was worth the pain.

At age 17 I got my first leave-out weave. Now leave out was my shit! The closest I ever got to my Disney princess dreams. I had my hair long and flowing, thick and silky. That unobtainable type 1B western beauty standard hair was mine, hindered only by my occasionally frizzing leave out. Which, of course, I straightened with the vim of the Seven Seas.

I remember once rushing to class, quickly grabbing my now outcast straighteners, cranking the heat up to an impressive 200 degrees and ironing the Blackness out of my hair. To add to this tragedy, I later hugged one of the boys outside and was distressed when he told me that I smelt like burning.

I must laugh, least I cry. I, a Black girl, was ultimately asking God for White people hair. I couldn’t make it make sense if I tried.

By 19 the prayer had changed. Now I would ask God for good hair. I had accepted that my hair wasn’t destined for Caucasian straightness; however, I believed that my hair could be good even if Walt Disney didn’t give me an indication as to what that was.

Alas, even within the western Black community there is an understanding of what good means when it comes to our hair.

The stereotype for Black hair is thick and afro-ed, kinky and tightly curled. However, good hair typically excludes natural hair. Deemed unruly in its ‘nappy’ state and yet luscious when White washed with relaxer. Like Princess Hair™, good hair is long hair; its length ignored when ‘shrunk’ and praised as the ‘actual length’ when straight. It refers to a particular type of Black hair. Hair that has been touched by Whiteness and somehow in its most natural form mystically lies somewhere between a styled Skai Jackson and a mixed race Yara Shahidi.

Good hair, people. Again, for me: a myth.

The thing is, the phrase is toxic. For 1) it fails to account for the multitude of hair textures found within the Black community, most of which have been ignored, be it with products, acknowledgment or appreciation and 2) it hinders daily life.

In 2016, a study by health researchers found that African American adolescent girls were likely to avoid getting wet or sweating for fear their straightened hair would become ‘nappy’. Again, the “Good Hair” survey found that Black women were more likely to experience high levels of anxiety due to their hair. (Once upon a teenager, myself included).

Studies have also found that Black men prefer smooth hairstyles to natural – my own unintended study included. I had a kinky straight weave last summer and when I tell you that my hairdresser laid those tracks down good, damn! Because, if you hadn’t seen my natural hair you wouldn’t have noticed and indeed some didn’t.

I was sitting in the park one lunch time, minding my own business, when an enraged Black man walks up to me and – with his whole chest – cursed Black girls who insist that Black hair doesn’t grow. He then proceeded to aggressively applaud me for having “good hair” before insisting that I tell all the Black women out there how to grow their hair to be long like mine. All three hairs on his chest vibrating. I was shook.

Both him and Disney-princess-obsessed baby me didn’t get it. If a Black woman doesn’t have ‘good hair’, it’s not because it’s unobtainable for us. Rather, it’s because our hair is damaged from all the relaxer we were taught to soak in to make us more palatable. From all the products we put in it before we understand that there are different types of Black hair and they need different types of care. And from an inability to look after our hair because we are so focused on Westernising ourselves and our natural hair comes second.

See, the truth they don’t want you to know is that the only time a Black woman does not have good hair is when that hair is not healthy. That’s the real journey, that’s the real prayer, that’s the real birthday wish. Healthy Hair.

I finally began my healthy hair journey when I was 22, after a hairdresser gave me a bald patch from braiding and weaving my hair to tightly. I know, it was unfortunate; however, it did help get me here. And funnily enough, the healthier my hair has become the longer it’s grown too. So, ha Disney, look at me! Look. At. Me. I’m the princess now.

So, there you have it folks!  Good hair as we define it – bin it! Oh, and as for Princess Hair™, I could have been saved all this personal struggle had someone just have thought of me and created an animated movie of a lovely Black princess with Afrocentric hair and sent it through on VCR to my home address. Would that have been so hard? I think not Disney!

And before anyone tries it with the ‘at least they made The Princess and the Frog Black’ line… Yes, great, finally a Black princess, but 1) must we give a medal to every White-washed institution for doing the bare minimum? And 2) Princess Tiana as a frog for 120 minutes does not count as equal representation within the princess world, just saying…

On a brighter note; soon come Halle Bailey as the Black little mermaid we all deserve. Shhh… don’t tell Walt *Sips Tea*