More Than Hair: Culture, Confidence and the CROWN Act

Inside Vanity Trap in Inglewood, the conversation moves easily — from childhood memories to grief, motherhood and work. But for Gabrielle "Onyx" Bates, hair has always meant more than beauty.

"I absolutely love serving my people," Bates said. "That’s one of the biggest joys that I have — seeing the smiles on their faces, young, old, really old. I just love it."

For Bates, hair is confidence.

"When our hair is not right, we don’t feel right," she said. "Yesterday my hair was not right. I had the worst attitude on top of just being a woman and not wanting to be there at that moment. And today I’m a different person, and baby I’ve had a hell of a day, but I like my hair. I love my hair now, so I’m a whole different person, and I feel so much better."

But behind the styles — afros, braids, wigs, silk presses — is history.

"For our kids. They need to understand we’re not just wearing braids to wear them," Bates said. "We’re wearing them because we’re still honoring our ancestors. This is what helped our ancestors be free. This is what helped them be able to be away from those slave masters. This is what helped them, and this is why we’re here right now, because of those maps that were in their head."

Hair as identity.

Hair as resistance.

Hair as survival.

That history is central to the work of Kelli Richardson, CEO of House of JOY and a founding member of the movement behind the CROWN Act.

"Black hair has never been just about hair," Richardson said. "During enslavement, our ancestors’ hair was one of the few things they could control. And braiding and braiding patterns often carried signals of freedom. There were also places where people would put seeds or rice or nourishment, even that roots to liberation. And so it’s not just been about hair."

In many African cultures, she added, braided styles signaled status, lineage and pride.

After emancipation, however, those meanings were distorted.

"After emancipation, society told us that our hair was something different and that our hair was unprofessional. We often were told we were unkempt or it was dirty or it needed to be different," Richardson said. "Black women and girls, including myself, learned at an early age that we needed to have our hair straightened in order to be professional, which is not okay."

That tension carried into modern workplaces and classrooms.

Richardson points to 2018 as a turning point.

"There were so many moments that made us realize that this work was critically important," she said. "In 2018, we started working with the Dove brand. And at that time, there was a case, a Supreme Court case, with a woman named Chastity Jones that got dismissed. That’s when we first realized that it was actually legal to discriminate against a person because of their hair, their natural hair or their protective styles."

At the same time, children were being sent home from school over braids and other protective styles.

"We said this cannot be true. We really need to do something to end race-based hair discrimination," she said.

That momentum led to the CROWN Act — which stands for "Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair."

"The CROWN Act stands for creating a respectful and open world for natural hair," Richardson explained. "And what it does simply is protect people from hair discrimination based on hair texture and protective styles such as braids, locks, twists and knots. And it does that for schools and workplaces."

California became the first state to pass a CROWN Act law in 2019. Since then, more than two dozen states have adopted similar protections, though many states still lack explicit hair discrimination laws. A federal CROWN Act has passed the U.S. House of Representatives but has not yet become law.

Richardson says the impact begins early.

"So from a young girl perspective, we did a research study that actually showed that over 50% of women and young girls stated that they saw their daughter experience hair discrimination as early as 5 years old," she said. "So it affects a young girl’s confidence at a very early age, and it can last a lifetime."

Her own experience reflects that pressure.

"For people like myself, you know, I never wore my hair naturally my entire life until I started working on this movement, this work with CROWN," she said. "Because I was trained that the Eurocentric standards of beauty were what was beautiful. Since I was probably 12 years old, it was blown out straight. And that’s what I was taught was professional in the workplace."

Now, she says, the goal is choice.

"Why this is so important is because it gives us freedom to be free to express ourselves however we choose," Richardson said. "Even as an elder, I finally feel free to wear my hair how I choose to wear it. It’s a choice that we all should have."

Back in Inglewood, Bates sees that shift reflected in her chair.

"I’ve literally gotten the clippers and shaved my hair off. I’ve worn braids. I’ve done the natural thing. I’ve done pixies. Of course I love my weaves. I love it all," she said. "I changed my wig four times last week. I was four different people. That’s something that I like to do, and it makes me feel good."

She laughs about wigs being "hats" some days — quick, practical, powerful.

But she also sees how stigma still lingers.

"When clients wear their natural hair, a lot of women that I work with, they’re scared to show their real hair because they don’t want to have to explain anything," Bates said.

That’s why she starts with her daughters.

"Absolutely. I teach my daughters now that it’s okay to wear your hair out. So if they do go to school and somebody says, ‘Oh, your hair’s nappy,’ they can actually explain, ‘My hair is actually not nappy. My hair is coarse.’"

She believes laws like the CROWN Act help establish needed boundaries.

"I do feel like the CROWN Act is helping with the boundaries," Bates said. "You’re not gonna fire me because you don’t like my hair. You’re not going to move me down and degrade me because of my hair."

Still, she says education matters just as much.

"I feel like we’re still in transition. Instead of giving them a nasty read, let’s just give them a little bit of education. ‘You ever heard of Madam C.J. Walker? Let me tell you what she invented.’"

Inside Vanity Trap, that education happens alongside something else: community.

"My clients uplift me, they pray for me, they love me, I love them," Bates said. "They’re not even my clients anymore. They’re actually my family."

Her grandmother remains her guiding force.

"My grandmother was my inspiration. That was my superhero," Bates said. "So much tried to stop me to get to this point today. So the fact that they’re actually doing it is crazy to me."

For Richardson, moments like Black History Month offer a chance to reflect.

"Black history is every day," she said. "It’s an honor to be able to pause and reflect and look at all of what we’ve done for society at large and for culture."

And in salons like Bates’, that culture is alive and evolving.

"We are strong, strong," Bates said. "We are here and we’re not going nowhere."

As the push for federal protection continues, Bates keeps welcoming women into her chair — offering not just style, but affirmation.

Because for Black women, hair has never been just hair.

It is history.

It is identity.

And it is the power to choose.