I Stopped Dying My Hair After My Mum Died: A Story Of Finding Myself Again

Words: Haaniyah Angus

Content Warning: This piece speaks graphically about parental death and grieving.

The week after my mum's passing feels like a hazy memory. The days have blurred into one, leaving me unable to recall exact moments until they pop back into my head with full clarity alongside a gutteral punch of grief. What I do remember is that I woke each morning frantically gasping for air. Perhaps in some strange kinship with my mother, my lungs stopped working the moment right before I pushed back into consciousness. I kicked and thrashed, clawing my way out of one nightmare right into another. My room looked the same - with haphazardly placed posters on the wall and a stack of clean clothes that needed sorting - but something always felt off. And then it clicked - I was here alive and my mother was not. 

It took me some time to look at myself in the mirror again. I feared recognising her facial features in my smile and dimples. My hair was a greasy mess from the amount of oil and slick buns I tied it in during hospital visits. Hair wasn’t something I wanted to think about during her month-long hospital stay. The first half coincided with a freak September heatwave, which meant braids to make the constant back-and-forth visits easier. The second began with a hospital call at 8 AM to confirm she had been put into a medical coma. There was no time for hair care then - a bun had to do.

What they don’t tell you when a doctor takes your mother off of life support is that you’ll be waiting hours on end until she passes. You’ll go home to rest and slick your hair back down so you can portray a sense of togetherness. But then you get the call that she’s died, that togetherness falls apart. You don’t care about how contained you look; your mother just died, and you weren’t there to see it. All you witness is the aftermath. The coldness of her body when you hugged her goodbye. How the prickling heat crawled out from your eyes — you never knew you could cry this much and you desperately wish you could unlearn that horrid fact. The ICU staff offering your family condolences when, in fact, there was nothing they could’ve done because the culprit to her death was the subtle dismantling of the NHS by crooked political bodies. 

After the funeral, I needed a way to cleanse myself of something, anything at all. My hair has always been the main source of change in my life. For most of my teens and twenties, I used hair dye to control my emotions when therapy and antidepressants seemed to be on the fritz. When I was sad, I’d go to light brown to signify some sort of pseudo emo phase. When I was happy, I’d go for vibrant pinks, purples and even green to show off that I too, could be creative.  And for a sense of comfort, coppers would be my go-to. 

My mum was dead, and if there was one thing I desperately needed, it was comfort. So, I got out my trusted tool kit and went to work: I bleached my hair, dyed it, used a protein treatment to finish it off, hoping that once I took the towel off of my head some sort of healing would begin. Yet as I stood in front of the mirror it all felt so off. The bleach hadn’t worked properly, leaving blotches of my dark roots against the fresh colour, the dye was not the right shade of copper, and the protein treatment left my hair feeling more like straw than its usual finish of airiness. I found myself feeling more alienated from my body. 

“I’d always dreamed that when I was her age, I’d also have a ritual where I’d find myself re-emerging into who I was meant to be. Maybe my mother would allow me to join in, and it would be our ritual continued into our adulthoods.”

My mum wasn’t the biggest fan of my hair dye antics, which is a tad ironic considering she’s the person that inspired it. As a child I loved following my mother’s hair stories. When she dyed her formerly dark brunette and now greying hair into deep red henna, burgundy purples, or light brown, it signified a shift. She’d announce to my brothers and I that we weren’t to disturb her lest we end up with stains for days to come on both our skin and the bathroom tiles. Still, I always peered in to watch the magic happen. 

Within 30-45 minutes, she emerged as someone new but not unrecognisable. I’d always dreamed that when I was her age, I’d also have a ritual where I’d find myself re-emerging into who I was meant to be. Maybe my mother would allow me to join in, and it would be our ritual continued into our adulthoods. Except that now, it was my adulthood. 

Because my mother was gone and she wouldn’t see me turn 30, write a book, get married or any other signifiers of adulthood she had been waiting for. My mother saw me last at 24 years old, with blotchy hair dye, and held my hand on a cool night two days before she was placed into a coma. She reminded me how much she loved me, that I made her proud and that I was a good person. I hugged her goodbye and told her I loved her. I didn’t realise I’d be verbalising the last words she’d ever hear from me but if I could do it again, I wouldn’t change a single word. 

Two months after my mother passed I booked a hair appointment. My mother wasn’t going to see me transition into adulthood but that didn’t mean I had to stop trying. I cut my curly mane into a short bob and dyed it my natural jet black. A basic choice for many, but for me it meant I could look into the mirror again - because what I saw wasn’t just my reflection but the person my mother watched me grow up as and the daughter she will no longer get to see.