Your Favourite Dada Girl - by Oluwadamilola Adesina

Nothing could have prepared me for the changes that happened when I transformed my full head of natural black hair into about 150 locs three years ago. It was gradual. I first installed about 300 mini twists—tiny, beautiful things that looked gorgeous at first and somehow became even more beautiful as they matured. But much later, they became rough and difficult and gave me an unkempt look. I spent about six months researching locs: sizes, installation methods, whether or not to loosen the locs later. Finally, I decided to turn my overly rough mini twists into locs. You would think six months of research would guarantee the perfect result. It didn't. Not even close. My first mistake was going to someone who insisted the mini twists had to be joined together. Just like that, my dream of Sisterlocs disappeared. The same stylist created haphazard parting lines, and by the time he was done, my head was filled with inconsistent sizes of badly arranged, very short locs. I smiled as I left the salon. I'm that girl who doesn't complain in the salon. The first thing I told my friends was, "I hate my hair." The reception was mixed. My girls saw only beauty. A dear friend sent me an entire Pinterest collection of ways to style my short locs. It warmed my heart to know someone had thought of me so intentionally. Another couldn't stop talking about how beautiful I'd look in a few years. She loved what she saw before her just as much as the version of me she imagined five years into my journey. To her, I would look like Jackie Hill Perry, my favourite woman preacher. How reassuring. Then came the not so good comments. "I liked your natural hair better." "I like your locs, but I could never loc my own hair." "It'll soon start breaking." "What made you do it?" "Is this how you'll look forever?" Solicited and unsolicited opinions arrived on different days from different people. My own mind wasn't quiet either. Some days I was completely in love with my locs. Other days, I wished I could travel back in time, maybe sit with a therapist before making a decision that seems like a major life decision. But eventually, the day came when I settled into my new look and the identity it gave me. With Pinterest, a better loctician and painless retightening sessions, bad hair days faded. Slowly, every glance in the mirror became an exercise in self-awareness and self-love and my confidence has since known no bounds I learned styles. I created styles. On the days my locs looked dull, I learned how to bring back their shine. For a while, I was confused about how I wanted to present myself. Should I soften the razzness with pink ribbons, satin bands, clips, and look feminine Or should I wear my locs down and embrace the effortless, bohemian elegance they naturally carried? Eventually, I realized it didn't really matter. I could easily switch, locs are more versatile than that look. I could pair my locs with whatever outfit reflected how I felt that day. My identity didn't have to be fixed. One Sunday, a church member leaned over and whispered, asking if I was conjuring with spirits because I looked absent-minded and had cowries in my locs. I smiled and replied, "We're in church. The only Spirit I could have been talking to is the Holy Spirit." He had a smirk on his face, a look I'm well accustomed to. I became better at reading people's expressions, the ones that are ostensibly complimentary but subtly disapproving. It's funny how quickly people create stories about you because of how you choose to wear your hair. Work wasn't much different. I still remember one particularly awkward day when my supervisor looked at me and, for lack of better words, said I needed to change my look if I wanted to get a man. He was talking about my locs. I didn't blame him entirely. My locs were still in their awkward stage, and honestly, they weren 't looking their best. But if Lagos men truly chose women based on hairstyles, many of us would have very different love stories. At another workplace, my professionalism was questioned before I had even opened my mouth. My boss looked at me and simply said, "You're a young woman o." Maybe what he saw was an old witch. What I saw was just a bad hair day. And even that was under control—or so I thought. As my locs grew longer and the colour slowly changed from sun bleaching, they began attracting a different kind of attention. It's more of a conversation starter now. I started documenting my locs journey and shared them online, just vibing and enjoying the growth. My fan base increased. With the ugly phase over, I've gotten used to compliments and just questions from curious people. I must say the most admirers are the men, maybe I should tell my supervisor that I will soon find a man.<img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/NEW.jpg"/>A colleague approached me and offered to maintain my locs for the generous "discounted" price of ₦55,000. I appreciate whatever she saw in me that made her believe I could do my hair for that amount. We were employed by the same organization. If our payslips looked anything alike, she wouldn't have confidently quoted that price. Somewhere along the journey, I became "the girl with locs." A love interest once called me Dada Girl. He loved me as much as my locs—or perhaps he simply loved how much I loved them. From barely being able to pack them into three tiny sections, my locs now rest beautifully on my shoulders. Some soldiers have fallen. Others have been joined together so they wouldn't. I've experimented with extensions, tried dyeing the brown tips left by the sun, and learned that every loc journey tells its own story. I'm still not sure whether these locs will stay with me for ten years. But I know this. There was a time when this was all I wanted. I got it. And every single day since has been a lesson in embracing my decisions, receiving compliments without shrinking, and letting negativity pass without taking root. My locs and I have come a long way. Whether I one day shave my head, return to loose natural hair, or try something entirely different, one thing is certain: this girl will reinvent herself again and again. Hair was just the beginning. <img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/jackie_2.jpg"/>

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