Salons of every price and stature are dotted across London - for Caucasian hair – but after a decade spent mystified by her experiences, Loretta deFeo asks, where are all the great black hair salons?

Its 12:45pm, Saturday. I’ve now been sat in the local hair salon for over an hour with no sign of my usual hairdresser. I know she’s around, because her 11-year-old daughter is sat beside me on a shabby faux-leather armchair, dressed in her school uniform, quietly tapping away on her iPhone. Finally she appears. And without explanation, begins to furiously shampoo my hair like it’s some old washing up lying stale in the sink. Then, I’m plonked under a dryer for twenty minutes to bake.

Despite it being a tight chest of a room, it serves a dual purpose as a bag shop – Quality Street-coloured polyester bags line the walls. The floor is scattered with stubs of hair and bits of old weave. A hair dryer lays atop a counter, leaking water onto an electrical cable beneath and the unmistakable smell of vegetable soup hangs in the air.

Astonishingly, she decides this would be a convenient time for her to go into town and try on ‘that’ dress she saw recently.  I turned up here an hour ago as a customer and now it seems I’ve become the babysitter. The little girl still hasn’t looked up from her iPhone. Maybe I should text her and see if she knows where the kettle is?

I’d love to say all of this came as a shock – that it was an isolated experience – but the truth is it’s depressingly atypical. I’ve been on a quest to find a skilled, reliable and reasonably priced hairdresser for the ten years I’ve been in London. This may sound like a simple task to most people, but it feels like a long and lonely road when you have Afro hair.

"Why shouldn’t I expect the same satisfactory experience as others, despite the fact I have a different type of hair?"

I’m not looking for caviar and champagne. I’d just like to be able to book an appointment and be seen within 30 minutes of arriving. I would appreciate clean and comfortable surroundings; a trusted hairdresser who won’t burn or sever my hair, someone who’d happily give me their full attention for an hour or two. To be offered an up to date magazine to read and a drink in a comfortable environment would be a dream.

It’s become painfully clear that my only options are either spending a month’s rent in a luxury Afro salon or running the gauntlet with the local salons, you know, where your hairdresser goes shopping in the middle of your blow dry. I can’t be the only one who feels like this?

Granted, Afro hair presents an entirely unique set of requirements for a hair salon. Many black women opt to relax their hair, using an extremely powerful alkaline cream (or ‘creamy crack’ as it's called in Chris Rock's enlightening documentary, Good Hair, due to its addictive nature). It’s used to straighten Afro/Caribbean hair - consequently making it a million times more manageable. It needs topping up every 6-8 weeks. However, excessive applications can significantly weaken the hair, causing it to break or worse –fall out. If the relaxer is left on too long or all over your hair, it will literally destroy it, leaving you no option but to chop it off and start again.

"There is a reason why black chicks won't let you mess with their hair - they’ve got a Cartier watch on their head!"

Three years ago, one London hairdresser coated my hair from root to tip in creamy crack. I asked her what she was doing and was told 'its fine, we won't keep it in long.' IT'S NOT FINE! I politely asked her to wash it out immediately. She shrugged it off as if I was being completely unreasonable for not wanting to lose my hair. We sat in silence whilst she dried my hair. I left the salon (named 'Care and Love' – the irony of which is not lost on me) in tears, with my hair clinging on for dear life.

Still, perhaps it’s just me? Maybe I’ve just got horrendously bad luck? I asked some friends for recommendations. ‘Cut off the relaxer and get some braids and some extensions in there. I don’t have a hairdresser, don't even get me started on it,’ said one. ‘Tea, coffee? The closest I’ve ever got to that is being sent down the road to get patties and Ribena for the whole shop. I wouldn’t mind, but you’re not in and out in a couple of hours, entire seasons change while your there, so complementary tap water would be help. I can think of one or two really good salons but they’re about as expensive as a week in Maldives. There is a reason why black chicks won't let you mess with their hair - they’ve got a Cartier watch on their head!’ said another.

I take some comfort knowing I’m not the only one going through this, but still, it seems so unjust. Why shouldn’t I expect the same satisfactory experience as others, despite the fact I have a different type of hair? Why isn’t a trip to the salon a treat for me, like it is for most of my Caucasian friends? Instead, an impending appointment creates a sharp, visceral knot of fear in my stomach.

There have been some fleeting beacons of light, though. The first few times I went to Craig*, he did a fantastic job. I genuinely believed I had found ‘the one’ - a hairdresser I trusted. I'd book an appointment and he would see me at that time. No two-hour wait! Usually, the booking system is completely redundant. Have you ever walked passed a black hairdressers and seen a lot of people hanging out? They’re not hanging out. They are waiting …and waiting.

"Have you ever walked passed a black hairdressers and seen a lot of people hanging out? They’re not hanging out. They are waiting …and waiting"

During a routine Friday night trim, with only us in the salon, Craig asked me if I had a boyfriend. ‘Yes,’ I replied (I didn't). ‘So you don't want to go out with me?’ he asked. ‘I would, Craig, but I don't think my boyfriend would like that.’ Then I heard the scissors snap way too close to the back of my head. I saw a massive chunks of my hair hit the floor. He was smirking, I was petrified. ‘Don't worry, you look like Rihanna now. It's good to try something different,’ he quipped. I said nothing, threw his money on the side and left, totally shell shocked. Friends harangued me for paying him, but I’d just long accepted that bad experiences happen in my hairdressing world.

There’s no reason for it to be this way. Black hair is a billion-dollar global industry and worth £88m to the UK alone and yet, it’s impossible to see how any of this collective wealth is funnelled back down to the salon and therefore, the consumer. A hair relaxing appointment at a Knighstbridge salon is around £100-£150. So, I’m forced to go to local, where it costs £25-£35. On top of that, there's the expense of specialist treatments costing £30-£40 every couple of weeks. Where’s the middle ground? Where’s the 'Whistles or Cos of black hair? None of my Caucasian friends have to spend £250 on a haircut every 6 weeks.

When it comes to catering for diversity, London leads and the rest of the world follows. In fashion, food, even nail bars, there are good quality options which correspond to all budgets, so, why does the hair industry trail behind when it comes to great salons which cater for all hair textures? It’s time the beauty industry took note of this and implemented some basic standards, or at the very least, highlighted the issue.

Two months ago, I made the decision to give up the creamy crack after my hair started to look sad and completely stopped growing. My friends enjoyed seeing me with an Afro, but my hair in its natural state is too much for me to handle on a daily basis – washing it takes two hours and brushing it’s like an hour in the gym. So now I have a Brazilian blow dry every two months, which costs  £200. This treatment uses keratin (which nourishes the hair) and lasts longer than relaxing, thus minimising the amount of time I have to return to the salons.

After ten years, I might have found a solution that works for me – at least for now – but what about the girl with Afro hair that’s just moved to London and wants her hair done? Where will she go?

*All names have been changed 

@lorettaforever