Welcome to It’s Textured, a column where we untangle the joy, trauma, confusion, and frustration that can come with Black hair. This month, writer Sophie Meharenna points out the overlooked exclusion of Black women from the “recession hair” conversation.
Over the past few months, “recession hair” has been everywhere. The trend—wherein people cut back on their regular hair color, cuts, and styling services to save money—has generated countless viral videos and been covered by InStyle, Refinery29, Bustle, Vogue, and Allure, who’ve all chimed in on how the current economy is reshaping people’s relationships with their hair. In addition to being a fiscally responsible choice, it’s often celebrated as a return to ease, a quiet resistance to beauty as performance, and a redefinition of effort.
While I appreciate the sentiment (and see the value in documenting the cultural shift), the widespread coverage has left me wondering: Who is allowed to “let go” without consequence? Because when you’re Black, like I am, your hair isn’t something you can scale back on without risk. It’s one of the most visible, policed, and politicized parts of who you are—especially in the workplace.
That’s why, for Black women, recession hair doesn’t look like grown-out layers or transitional lowlights—in fact, our recession hair looks ultimately the same as it otherwise does. While others are skipping their root touch-ups in the name of “economic survival,” most of us have no choice but to stand by our routine hair care and services—otherwise, we face the risks of showing up in the world looking anything less than “perfect” by white standards.
The rules for what hairstyles are deemed “professional” weren’t necessarily written with our coils in mind, but the consequences of breaking those rules are very real nonetheless. Early in my career, I kept my hair straight, a strategic effort to manage how I was perceived in my corporate office, particularly when meeting new clients for business development. I often maintained a biweekly blowout schedule, not because I loved the look but because I knew (and was even told by my then-supervisor) that it was the easiest way to fit in and therefore be heard.
These days, I wear my hair in curls, braids, twists, or whatever feels most like me—and despite significant progress when it comes to workplace inclusion, it does still affect how I’m treated in corporate contexts. Sometimes the scrutiny is subtle: eyes drifting to my roots before landing on my face. Other times, it’s absurd; a colleague once brought a ruler to measure how the shape of my hair changed through the day, amazed by the “magic” of shrinkage. Then there are the “compliments” like, “I wish I could pull that off,” that are loaded with innuendo and often make me wonder if certain people see my presence at work as a novelty.