From the Founder’s Desk: Why I got Microlocs

When I first got microlocs, people assumed it was simply a hairstyle decision.

A beauty choice.
A convenience thing.
A trend.

And while appearance was certainly part of it, the truth is, getting microlocs became much more emotional and symbolic than I expected.

Because somewhere along the way, I realised I was exhausted by maintenance.

Not just hair maintenance.
Life maintenance.

The constant upkeep.
The constant performing.
The constant pressure to always appear polished, put together, and effortlessly feminine.

As Black women, hair is rarely just hair.

It holds identity.
Memory.
Politics.
Expression.
Culture.
Femininity.
Professionalism.
Resistance.

And for years, I think I carried all of those things in my relationship with beauty without even realising it.

There’s an unspoken exhaustion many Black women quietly carry when it comes to our appearance. The appointments. The products. The routines. The time. The money. The effort it takes to maintain beauty standards while also trying to survive adulthood.

And eventually, I started craving ease.

Not neglect.
Not “giving up.”
Ease.

I wanted a version of beauty that felt softer.
More natural.
More aligned with the way I wanted to live my life.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand that I was entering a season of transition in multiple areas of my life. My relationship with work was changing. My definition of success was changing. My nervous system was tired. My priorities were shifting.

And somehow, microlocs became part of that transformation too.

For the first time in a long time, I wanted less performance and more authenticity.

I wanted hair that could exist with me rather than needing constant control from me.

There’s something incredibly freeing about waking up and still looking like yourself.

Not a version of yourself curated for presentation.
Not a version constantly trying to meet external expectations.

Just… yourself.

I think that’s one of the reasons microlocs feel so emotional for many Black women. They often arrive during periods of personal evolution.

After burnout.
After motherhood.
After heartbreak.
After corporate exhaustion.
After identity shifts.
After finally deciding to prioritise peace.

For me, microlocs symbolised softness.

Not softness as weakness.
Softness as release.

Release from perfectionism.
Release from constant manipulation.
Release from the feeling that beauty always had to require struggle.

And strangely enough, the more my locs grew, the more I felt myself growing too.

More grounded.
More accepting of myself.
More patient.
More comfortable with natural progression.

Because locs teach you patience whether you want to learn it or not.

You cannot rush them.
You cannot force them into instant perfection.
They become what they become over time.

And honestly?
That lesson mirrored my life perfectly.

I think a lot about how Black women are constantly encouraged to transform ourselves quickly.

Glow up.
Bounce back.
Fix it.
Improve it.
Perfect it.

But microlocs reminded me that some things are meant to evolve slowly.

That softness can exist in slowness.
That beauty can exist in becoming.

Living in the Caribbean also changed the way I viewed my hair.

Island life made me crave freedom in every area of my life — including beauty. The heat, the ocean, the pace, the simplicity of certain days. I no longer wanted hair that felt disconnected from the life I was trying to build.

I wanted ease.
Movement.
Versatility.
A beauty routine that worked with me instead of against me.

And honestly, I also wanted to reconnect with myself as a Black woman beyond corporate expectations.

There’s a particular kind of performance many Black women learn in professional spaces. Hair often becomes part of that performance — appearing polished, controlled, “appropriate,” presentable enough to fit into environments that were never really designed with us in mind.

But the older I get, the more I question how much of my life I want shaped around being digestible for other people.

Microlocs felt like a quiet return to myself.

A quieter kind of beauty.
A freer kind of femininity.
A version of womanhood that feels less exhausting.

And maybe that’s what this season of my life is really about overall.

Not becoming someone entirely new.

But slowly returning to the version of myself that feels the most honest.

The version underneath all the performing.

The version that wants softness.
Freedom.
Ease.
Alignment.

The version of me that no longer wants to spend her entire life maintaining appearances while quietly neglecting herself in the process.

I thought I was changing my hair.

Really, I was changing my relationship with myself.