The Politics of Hair & the Politics of Leadership

What Wash Day Teaches Black Women About Visibility, Identity, and Power

There’s a moment many Black women remember vividly —sitting on the floor between our mother’s or grandmother’s legs, the smell of Blue Magic or burnt hair lingering in the air, our scalp warmed by gentle hands that knew exactly what to do.

It wasn’t just grooming.

It was ritual.

It was intimacy.

It was culture.

It was care.

Wash day has always been more than washing our hair. For so many of us, it was the first place we learned about identity, patience, resilience, and beauty —long before we stepped into boardrooms, classrooms, or leadership spaces that would later try to rewrite our stories.

And as I think about Black women in leadership today, I realize:

The politics of our hair and the politics of our leadership are deeply intertwined.

Both have been questioned. Both have been policed. Both have been scrutinized. Both require courage to wear naturally, fully, unapologetically.

The First Lessons in Visibility

Growing up, we learned early that our hair carried meaning.

“Don’t let anybody touch your hair.”

“Keep it neat.”

“They’re going to say something if you wear it like that.”

Even before we understood the world, we understood that our existence — and our coils, curls, and kinks — were seen as something to manage, explain, defend, or justify.

Black women leaders experience the same thing:

Hypervisibility when they walk in the room.

Invisibility when it’s time for credit.

Scrutiny for how they speak, move, emote, or decide.

Pressure to constantly prove, perform, and produce.

It’s no coincidence that the same society that polices our hair also polices our leadership.

Identity: The Right to Show Up As You Are

On wash day, we are the ones who choose:

Twist-out or silk press.

Braids or wash and go.

Protective style or lace front.

Each choice says something—not about professionalism, but about agency.

In leadership, that same agency is often challenged:

“Maybe tone it down in that meeting.”

“Could you be a bit more approachable?”

“You’re coming across too strong.”

Translation:

Shrink. Contain. Assimilate. Perform.

But wash day teaches us something powerful:

Our identity is ours.

Our expression is ours.

Our presentation is ours.

Our fullness is ours.

And anything that requires us to abandon who we are is misalignment, not leadership.

Care: What We Learn From the Hands That Tended to Us

When we think back to sitting between those legs, hearing stories, receiving wisdom, and feeling safe enough to lean back and fully trust…

We remember that leadership, at its best, feels like care — not constant self-sacrifice.

Those moments taught us:

To be still.

To be tended to.

To be poured into.

To receive softness without guilt.

Yet as Black women leaders, we are often taught the opposite:

Give everything.

Hold everything.

Fix everything.

Carry everything.

But hair care has always reminded us:

We need deep conditioning too.

We need protection.

We need rest.

We need someone to pour into us just as we pour into others.

Wash day is a countercultural form of liberation — an embodied refusal to rush, to shrink, or to neglect ourselves.

Leadership should be the same.

Legacy: What We Pass Down Through Ritual and Example

Just as our mothers and grandmothers passed down hair care traditions, Black women leaders pass down ways of being.

Whether we realize it or not, our leadership becomes heritage.

When we choose authenticity over assimilation, rest over burnout, courage over shrinking, and boundaries over martyrdom, we model a liberated way of leading that the next generation of Black women can inherit.

There is a little girl sitting between someone’s knees right now, listening, watching, absorbing.

What will she learn from us —about how to take up space, how to honor her identity, and how to lead with wholeness?

A Closing Truth

Wash day teaches us a sacred lesson:

We are worthy of care, visibility, protection, and authenticity — not only in our homes, but in our leadership.

And no boardroom, institution, or workplace culture has the authority to tell us otherwise.

We get to show up whole.

We get to lead without shrinking.

We get to claim space with the same pride and intentionality we bring to oiling, braiding, moisturizing, and honoring our hair.

Our leadership, like our hair, is ours.

And it is beautiful — exactly as it grows.

be well, sis.