Onídìrì — My Head, My Crown
I opened my Instagram page on the 30th of September, 2025, and the post that lingered in my heart all day was Onídìrì by Adisa Olashile.I kept returning to it, again and again. I am a lover of photography, and this picture captured me completely. I studied everything — the woman’s face, the child’s attitude, the chair, the stool, the style. Luckily, the photographer shared the behind-the-scenes images, and I sat with them for almost an hour. My imagination started to travel. I saw the story behind it. The trade. The craft. The pride. Suddenly, I did not hate or resent my own irun dídì memories anymore.The image — a close-up of hands intricately braiding someone’s hair, the texture rich, the motion intentional — reminded me so much of me.It wasn’t just about hair.It was about memory.It was about culture.It was about pain.It was about beauty.It took me back memory Lane. The Woman, The Lap, The Hair . As a child, I dreaded Sunday afternoons. That was hair time. It meant going to the woman who would braid my hair with all the strength in her hands and none of the gentleness I prayed for. I cried — not only from the pain, but also from the smells, the atmosphere, the helplessness. She would force my head between her thighs, holding me down with no escape. Today, I don’t resent her anymore. I understand now — it was her livelihood. She worked with pride. She didn’t just braid hair; she preserved culture. And she gave me her best. Dídì — More Than Just Braids. Dídì is a traditional Yoruba braiding style — an inverted braid, the opposite of regular cornrows. But to call it just a style is to miss the point. Irun dídì is a story. A tradition. An art form rooted in Yoruba heritage. Braiding, in African and African-American cultures, carries layers of meaning:• Identity & Status — Styles communicate age, rank, marital status, even tribal lineage.• Spiritual Significance — The head (orí) is sacred. Hair is not just hair; it connects to destiny.• Community Bonding — Braiding is communal. A space of storytelling, laughter, and wisdom passed down.• Protection & Practicality — Styles shield natural hair from harsh climates and manipulation.• Resistance & Resilience — During slavery, braids became silent resistance: maps, messages, memory.• Artistry & Expression — Each parting, each pattern, is intentional — a display of creativity and cultural pride.
From Dry Fish to Yarn Dolls
After those Sunday ordeals, my grandmother took over. She only knew how to do dídì.Her method? More tight laps. More tears. But unlike the hair woman, she came prepared with bribes — a plate stacked with dry fish to keep me still.Then came Lagos. Lagos Days: A House Full of Hair . When I think back to Lagos, I see hair everywhere. Not just strands and styles, but love, laughter, and heritage woven together.Every Sunday after lunch, the ritual began:• Aunty Toyin stood behind Aunty Funmilola, braiding her hair while she sat gracefully on a chair.• Aunty Yemisi perched on the little apótí (wooden stool), having her own hair worked on.• And I was there, on the floor — braiding my doll’s yarn hair or simply listening, wide-eyed, to the stream of conversation around me.Everyone was doing hair at the same time — pulling, parting, weaving, tightening. The room buzzed with gossip, playful teasing, testimonies, prayers, and laughter. What I didn’t know then was that this was more than a hair day. It was communion. It was culture. It was memory passed down, strand by strand.Years later, we recreated that photo — women lined up in sequence, each one braiding the next. And I saw it clearly: this is heritage. This is love handed down. This is how crowns are shaped. During the COVID lockdown, I recreated those Lagos memories in a photo shoot. To this day, it remains one of the most beautiful things I have ever done.
My Head, My Crown.
Now, as a salon owner, I carry those memories into every appointment.When someone sits in my chair, I don’t just see hair. I see history. I see heritage. I see a crown. And I don’t take it lightly. In Yoruba belief, not everyone is permitted to touch your head. The head (orí) is sacred. So whenever I lay hands on a client, I pray. I bless. I speak life as I work.The Bible says:“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.” — Ecclesiastes 9:10“Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial… that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him.” — James 1:12. For me, hair is not just work. It is ministry. It is healing. It is therapy. Some days, I am a stylist. Other days, a teacher, a prayer partner, a friend. I laugh with my clients. I cry with them. Sometimes, I even dance with them when life feels too heavy. This is more than a profession. It is a calling.
Coming Soon: My Head, My Crown.
This blog post is just the beginning.A book is coming — My Head, My Crown — where I will share more stories from the salon chair, from childhood, and from the sacred space where culture, faith, and beauty intertwine. Until then, I pray you always wear your crown boldly.✨ Your head is blessed.✨ Your hair is sacred.✨ Your story matters.“But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession…” — 1 Peter 2:9You are royalty.Your hair is your crown.And your crown is your testimony.
