Let’s Talk About The Battle Over Who Does Black Women’s Hair

Lately, the debate over whether Black women should get our hair done in a corporate chair at a retail giant like Ulta or retreat to the privacy of an independent solo suite is moving us further away from the community space of Black beauty salons that historically have welcomed, shielded, and anchored us in self-care and community. 

I was a teenage girl, untethered and newly navigating the rough edges of the foster care system, when I somehow found my way into the basement beauty salon across the street from my high school. I didn’t know it then, but descending those steps would introduce me to Toni, who would open a new world and a new lens through which I saw myself. 

Toni was a queer gay man whose vibrancy overflowed the modest salon.  He had survived the rough streets of Chicago and had been raised outside his biological family. Toni eventually found safety and community in San Diego, where he was able to blossom. He would regale me with stories of how free he felt living in his true self after a childhood spent feeling like living in his truth put him in grave danger. 

Given our shared history of being raised by non-biological families and often being the outlier in our communities, Toni became fiercely protective of me, and that salon became my second home in many ways. I’d sometimes stop by after school just to talk, bond, and check in on him. 

Toni’s personal style mirrored a slender diva, with beautiful natural lashes and a presence that commanded the room. He wore a durag that, outside of the salon, served as protective armor that had him fitting in with other Black men, but inside the salon, he’d flip the durag’s flowing fabric from one side to the other as if he was rocking a 17-inch bust-down weave. 

Anytime I’d affectionately call him “girl” in conversation, his broad smile would light up the salon. Today, in a world that has slowly broadened its vocabulary and its heart, it’s entirely possible that Toni might have identified as trans. I like to think that if he were here with us now, the world would have been gentler to him and more accepting of the beautiful duality he carried. 

Back then, for $45, including the tip, I would sit in his chair to get my hair permed, washed, and blown dry. He would fire up the hot comb to tame my edges and smooth my kitchen at the nape of my neck. Jesse, the salon’s owner, was usually buzzing around, and a rotating cast of patrons would overlap while I was in the salon. 

They would have deep discussions about politics and what was going on in the community. Listening to them, I learned how my elders navigated their professions, family, and love. People from the neighborhood popped in to sell socks or DVDs out of duffel bags. We were a tight-knit, multi-generational collective, learning from one another and holding each other up. 

When Jesse and Toni moved their salon, I followed them. 

Toni worked his magic on my hair for prom and graduation. The summer before I left for college in another state, Toni did my hair one last time, this time for free, thanks to contributions from a couple of his other clients. They’d always asked Toni and Jesse for updates on how I was doing, and they’d shared with them that I’d been displaced by my first foster parents the day after graduating high school and had landed in a temporary foster home for the two months I had left before heading off to Philadelphia for my freshman year of college. Toni and his patrons understood the increase in financial pressure and uncertainty I faced from this sudden displacement, and they knew this gesture would help ease that transition and remind me that I had a community that cared about me. 

The Black hair care industry has changed significantly since those days. Traditional storefront Black beauty salons like Jesse’s, which served as a community hub and vital social safety net, have transformed as more stylists moved into independent solo suites that offered privacy and exclusivity. Salon suites have become big business. There are over 30,000 salon suite locations in the United States. More than 50% of beauty professionals say they are considering renting a salon suite, and close to 35% of hairstylists are already self-employed. 

Those changes have come at a price. Clients frequently vent about a steep drop in customer service across these private spaces. The modern suite era has brought with it a wave of rigid, one-sided rules. Stylists routinely enforce strict late and cancellation policies, pocketing deposits even when the stylist cancels and the client can’t commit to the rescheduled time slots. 

The complaints extend to other parts of the solo suite experience. Clients now face high consultation fees, rising base prices, and a long list of tacked-on charges that used to be included in packaged services. 

A major reason for these spiking costs is the economic pressure on the stylists themselves. The companies that own and rent out these solo suites charge stylists high fees, forcing stylists to pass those high overhead costs to their clients. Tariffs have also made wholesale prices for products like hair more expensive.

The solo suite environment, often sold as a luxury experience, has also shifted, with clients reporting rude behavior, stylists scrolling on phones, or babysitting their children mid-appointment. Some stylists are working without active licenses. On top of that, many suite stylists now demand that patrons arrive with their hair already washed and blown dry, striking the classic sink wash from the longtime Black beauty salon ritual. 

The multi-chair setup that Ulta offers, in some ways, brings back the predictable, full-service energy of the old neighborhood Black beauty shop. Like the traditional salons, Ulta offers a bustling floor where clients can just walk in, get a complete wash-and-style, and see multiple stylists working side by side. This setup restores a lively, open environment where people talk, watch others get their hair done, and experience the salon as a shared hangout space focused on bringing community back together. 

For Black women, choosing where to get our hair done is also a major economic decision. Solo suite stylists often argue that their high prices are justified because they offer a luxury experience and better hair care. But the reality is that in today’s economy, Black women are facing unprecedented economic headwinds and financial pressure.

Because haircare is a recurring necessity rather than a one-time treat, many Black women feel they can no longer justify solo suite prices. Pivoting to a place like Ulta makes sense because it offers reliability, consistency, and a full-service experience at a much better price point. 

Ultimately, this shift toward retail giants could be the spark that brings everyone back home to Black-owned beauty salons. Getting reliable treatments under corporate lights serves as a reminder of the collective safety net that got lost when everybody moved into isolated rooms. 

We need traditional Black beauty salons like Jesse’s to return to drive market prices down and make regular hair care services affordable again. Bringing back the storefront model en masse creates the best of both worlds. It pairs professional, full-service standards with deep sisterhood, political engagement, and the irreplaceable community love I found with Jesse and Toni. 

In a world where Black women are constantly under assault, these salons serve as a vital safe space. We need spaces filled with multi-generational camaraderie where people notice when you are down, pool money and resources to help one another through a crisis, and make sure we step out into the world looking good and feeling whole.  

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