I Don’t Just Sell Hair. I Sell Identity, Confidence and The End of Shrinking Ourselves” Emeodi

For the longest time, African women have faced an unspoken rule in professional and social spaces: beauty is defined by proximity to Eurocentric standards. In boardrooms, on red carpets, natural African hair whether coily, kinky, or in locs has often been deemed “unpolished,” “unprofessional,” or simply “inappropriate” for important events.

Across the African continent and in the diaspora, the pressure to conform has meant that many Black women turn to chemical relaxers, wigs, and weaves to mimic the texture and styles of white women’s hair. In Nigeria, the United States, and the United Kingdom, this is not merely a matter of preference, it is often a prerequisite for acceptance.

The western standards of beauty have eaten so deep into African culture that even in cultural events like traditional weddings and ceremonies, women rather use wigs than use Afro textured extensions let alone their natural hair. The importance of the traditional hairstyle and what they represent has completely been eroded by the western beauty trends, this is a cultural attack on the African woman and her natural beauty.

“Hair isn’t just about fashion. It’s politics. It’s economics. It’s how you are treated the moment you walk into a room,” says Olivia Emeodi, founder of Captive Hair, a Nigerian hair brand positioning itself as part of a broader movement to redefine beauty for Black women.

Studies by the Perception Institute and Dove’s CROWN Research have shown that Black women’s hair is more likely to be judged negatively in the workplace compared to their white counterparts. In corporate settings, women with Afro-textured hair are disproportionately encouraged, sometimes directly told to “tame” their hair to fit a standard that privileges straight, silky textures.

“What that does,” Emeodi explained, “is force us to shrink ourselves. It’s saying: in order to be taken seriously, you must erase part of who you are.”

Protective styling, braids, twists, wigs, and weaves, has long been a way for Black women to protect their natural hair from breakage and environmental damage. But Emeodi argues that the mainstream hair industry has capitalized on these styles in ways that reinforce Eurocentric beauty norms, often promoting straight textures or looser curls as the ultimate goal.

Her company, Captive Hair, takes a different approach. Rather than selling hair solely as an aesthetic upgrade, the brand frames it as a tool for self-expression without pain, damage, or erasure. Installations are designed to be pain-free, and the styles celebrate Afro-textures rather than hide them.
“I don’t just sell hair,” Emeodi says. “I sell the possibility of walking into a global event in a style that is authentically African, and still being seen as powerful, sophisticated, and deserving of the room you’re in.”
“It’s not enough for natural hair to be accepted on Instagram,” she says. “It needs to be accepted in the United Nations chamber. It needs to be accepted in the C-suite. Until we stop apologizing for how we show up, the standard hasn’t changed.”
Captive Hair’s mission extends beyond selling products. Through campaigns and content, the brand spotlights the cultural and emotional significance of Black hair, advocating for an industry shift toward styles and practices that respect the wearer’s heritage and health.

For Emeodi, the goal is both deeply personal and broadly political: “I want my daughters, or any young Black girl to know that she can walk into the most important room of her life in her natural hair and feel completely at home. That’s the endgame. That’s why Captive hair exists.

“I Don’t Just Sell Hair. I Sell Identity, Confidence and The End of Shrinking Ourselves” Emeodi
For the longest time, African women have faced an unspoken rule in professional and social spaces: beauty is defined by proximity to Eurocentric standards. In boardrooms, on red carpets, natural African hair whether coily, kinky, or in locs has often been deemed “unpolished,” “unprofessional,” or simply “inappropriate” for important events.

Across the African continent and in the diaspora, the pressure to conform has meant that many Black women turn to chemical relaxers, wigs, and weaves to mimic the texture and styles of white women’s hair. In Nigeria, the United States, and the United Kingdom, this is not merely a matter of preference, it is often a prerequisite for acceptance.

The western standards of beauty have eaten so deep into African culture that even in cultural events like traditional weddings and ceremonies, women rather use wigs than use Afro textured extensions let alone their natural hair. The importance of the traditional hairstyle and what they represent has completely been eroded by the western beauty trends, this is a cultural attack on the African woman and her natural beauty.

“Hair isn’t just about fashion. It’s politics. It’s economics. It’s how you are treated the moment you walk into a room,” says Olivia Emeodi, founder of Captive Hair, a Nigerian hair brand positioning itself as part of a broader movement to redefine beauty for Black women.

Studies by the Perception Institute and Dove’s CROWN Research have shown that Black women’s hair is more likely to be judged negatively in the workplace compared to their white counterparts. In corporate settings, women with Afro-textured hair are disproportionately encouraged, sometimes directly told to “tame” their hair to fit a standard that privileges straight, silky textures.

“What that does,” Emeodi explained, “is force us to shrink ourselves. It’s saying: in order to be taken seriously, you must erase part of who you are.”

Protective styling, braids, twists, wigs, and weaves, has long been a way for Black women to protect their natural hair from breakage and environmental damage. But Emeodi argues that the mainstream hair industry has capitalized on these styles in ways that reinforce Eurocentric beauty norms, often promoting straight textures or looser curls as the ultimate goal.

Her company, Captive Hair, takes a different approach. Rather than selling hair solely as an aesthetic upgrade, the brand frames it as a tool for self-expression without pain, damage, or erasure. Installations are designed to be pain-free, and the styles celebrate Afro-textures rather than hide them.
“I don’t just sell hair,” Emeodi says. “I sell the possibility of walking into a global event in a style that is authentically African, and still being seen as powerful, sophisticated, and deserving of the room you’re in.”
“It’s not enough for natural hair to be accepted on Instagram,” she says. “It needs to be accepted in the United Nations chamber. It needs to be accepted in the C-suite. Until we stop apologizing for how we show up, the standard hasn’t changed.”

Captive Hair’s mission extends beyond selling products. Through campaigns and content, the brand spotlights the cultural and emotional significance of Black hair, advocating for an industry shift toward styles and practices that respect the wearer’s heritage and health.

For Emeodi, the goal is both deeply personal and broadly political: “I want my daughters, or any young Black girl to know that she can walk into the most important room of her life in her natural hair and feel completely at home. That’s the endgame. That’s why Captive hair exists.