Afua Hirsch on Rejecting Beauty Standards, Creative Control, and Cleopatra

This piece is part of The Jade Issue, a special issue of Polyester guest-edited and curated by Jade Thirlwall. Jade handpicked each of the musicians, activists, writers and it girls in the magazine as an exercise in trying to create the publication she wishes she’d been able to read growing up. Get your copy here!

Photography: Lewis Vorn | Makeup: Grace Ellington | Hair: Sky Cripps-Jackson | Photography Assist: Misha MN

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In her book Decolonising My Body, Afua Hirsch takes readers on a global exploration of ancestral rituals and traditions to uncover the evolution of mainstream beauty standards. From puberty rituals to getting her first tattoo at 40, she channelled her ancestors by reexamining the notions of body hair, waist beads and scarification. A true multi-hyphenate, Hirsch’s career began in law, before she transitioned to print media and TV journalism, and finally found her home in book writing and broadcasting. 

Her acclaimed debut, Brit(ish) (2018), explores her thoughts on race, identity and belonging. Following the book’s success, she formed her own production company, Born In Me. Inspired by Kwame Nkrumah's assertion that Africa is "born in me," Hirsch is dedicated to telling African stories and empowering others to reclaim their narratives. Jade sat down with Afua Hirsch to discuss everything from Cleopatra to bikini waxes…

Jade Thirlwall: In the same way that I’m going solo, you wanted to have a solo endeavour through your production company, Born in Me? How has that been doing it solo? How has that informed your creative process?

Afua Hirsch:  Oh, I love that question. Well, it was born organically from projects I was already making on TV, where I realised I had no creative control. And that's kind of radicalised me because all my work is also about decolonisation and redistributed power. If I'm not making that work in a way that aligns with my message, it feels pretty hypocritical. How can I make a series about addressing the wrongs of history?

Meanwhile, I'm not getting a profit cut, not building anything for my community. I need to be modelling my values in the way I work. So that was the reason for starting it. And then I decided to build it quite slowly, like off the success of the work rather than get funding, and then I had to change what I was doing to meet whoever was giving me money. But I'm proud of it. Because now I've been able to keep the integrity of my vision. 

I’ve had a door shut every time because nobody wanted to tell my story. That gives me faith to keep going with that story and not give up.

That makes me so happy. I think we can all reinforce each other by working that way. It also makes you question whether you believe in it. If you think it matters, you will wait until it's the right time. And if you feel like you have to rush it, then it does make you question, well, why am I doing it anyway?

You've written about embracing ageing and rejecting mainstream beauty standards. What advice would you give to women struggling with societal pressures around beauty and age?

I would say two main things, actually three things I'm going to say. One is to learn about other beauty standards and traditions, whether from your ancestry or your society in the past, because even Western Europe, pre-Christianity had incredible traditions that centred women and celebrated ageing. It's hard to reject something. It's much easier to embrace something. So I think it's not just rejecting the beauty standards we have now, that I think we can all see as very harmful, especially for women. But instead, it's about embracing other beauty standards and traditions that are enriching and celebrate you. And for me, that was a no-brainer. It's like, “Will I choose the thing that makes me hate myself? Or am I going to choose the tradition that tells me that the older I get, the more strong, beautiful, useful and interesting I'm becoming?”

One of my favourite chapters in the book was about body hair. Hearing you talk about how the whole idea of getting rid of body hair is so patriarchal, and also part of the whiteness of beauty standards, especially for women of colour who curly hair. I've kind of realised that I've spent my whole life shaving my pubes off for everyone but myself! What am I doing? It triggered a memory for me, when I did X Factor, the very first live show we did. This is so mad – we got put in a room with the beautician at the time, and the first thing they did was wax our pubes off? What about this is going to matter when I'm on live TV singing a cover of a song?

I had never laid down with my legs spread before, and I had never been waxed either. Growing up, I was always conscious of the 'hairy Arab' stereotypes, and I worked hard to avoid conforming to that image. Then suddenly, my first experience in the music industry felt like it started with a wax and a  "Welcome to the industry!" 

I was thinking about this while reading your book. It made me realise how, throughout our lives, we often feel pressured to do extreme things for our partners. We put ourselves through so much pain to remove hair and meet various beauty standards. My first partner who opposed this was [my current boyfriend]. When I met him, he asked me, "Why are you doing that? Why are you removing your hair? You're a woman, and that's what naturally grows." It was a mind-blowing moment for me.

It's interesting how we internalise the things others do to us and then start doing them to ourselves. It's not like people are forcibly telling us we must do this; we internalise the idea that we're less than, deficient, unattractive, or not good enough unless we adhere to these standards. And let's not forget the capitalist aspect: the average British woman spends over £70,000 on hair removal in her lifetime.

Your decision to defy society's strict beauty norms in your book is truly empowering and thought-provoking. Could you elaborate on what inspired you to take that stance and how it has shaped your view of beauty? 

There's a specific story behind my decision. My mother's family is from Ghana, and growing up, I viewed Ghanaian traditions like scarification and tattooing as backward, remnants of pre-colonial times. My family, like many others, was converted to Christianity by missionaries centuries ago. We were taught that our ancestors' ways were savage and that adopting Western norms would civilise us. Colonialism is designed to make people reject their heritage and aspire to be more like the colonisers.

When I turned 40, a friend's exhibition celebrating scarification rituals opened my eyes. It portrayed these practices as honouring women's bodies, which challenged my preconceptions. Around the same time, I noticed friends undergoing surgical procedures to combat ageing, and I had a realisation. I questioned why society accepts risky surgeries to defy natural ageing while condemning rituals that celebrate ancestry and community roles.

It dawned on me how deeply colonialist my thinking still was, despite decades of advocating for decolonisation in other aspects of life. This revelation prompted me to scrutinise my beliefs more broadly. I decided my 40th year would be about decolonising my body. That journey led me to write my book, documenting my experience and challenging conventional beauty standards.

As we've discussed, I've written about my upbringing in South Shields, where, despite a prominent Arab community, my dark-skinned mother struggled to connect with our cultural roots in Essex society. Now, as an adult, I've gained a deeper understanding of her challenges and choices, leading to forgiveness and a closer relationship between us. Reflecting on this journey, what are the most significant lessons you've learned from your mother? Looking ahead, what values or lessons do you hope to pass down to your own children?

I really relate to you, Jade. I've been on a similar journey with my mum. It's easy to judge our parents until we realise the things they were truly focused on amidst their challenges. Forgiveness has been a tough lesson for me, especially knowing my daughter might write books about my failures one day—and I'm okay with that. In my own journey of decolonising my body, I've sought out rituals and traditions that were lost in my family. Initially, I was anxious about how my family would perceive these traditions, given they were never openly discussed and might be seen as hostile. It's been amazing to witness their acceptance. For instance, my grandmother, who's quite conservative, once remarked on the large ancestral tattoo on my hand – a departure from our family's norms over the past 200 years. Expecting disapproval, she surprised me by simply asking if it was removable. When I said no, she smiled and said she liked it. Her acceptance, without needing explanations, deeply moved me – it was as though she understood without words.

Well, I suppose, you know, it's not a “live laugh love” tattoo. Yeah. But I think, yeah, you're right. Maybe she instinctively knew it was within her.

I felt a deep sense of healing within my family during these moments. For my daughter's puberty initiation, she created a shrine and invited my mother to lead us in. Seeing my mother place flower crowns on our heads, she apologised to me, expressing regret for not marking such an important moment in my life. Her words and actions felt like a significant step towards healing our lineage.

My mum has recently started embracing her natural hair again for the first time since I was a little girl. It feels like something significant has shifted. For the past 20 years, she had been regularly relaxing her hair, but now she's embracing it in its natural state. As her daughter, this feels like a powerful and meaningful move.

It's a reciprocal relationship. Also, I remember that picture of your mom with her braids. Yeah, it was in the paper. I think they ran an article about it.

She was the first woman in South Shields to braid her hair.

Amazing.