"Iris, you might not always see someone in the room that looks like you and that’s okay."

Växjö, 1988. My mom gave birth to me, a baby girl with red, wavy hair and fair skin. My mom was often asked if she was the babysitter because of my complexion. When I was a baby, my hair received constant attention. Strangers would ask, “Did you perm her hair? Did you dye it?” Not everyone in my small hometown in Sweden looked like me. My mom is from Gambia and my dad from Sweden. Neither of them has red hair, though my dad had reddish hair when he was a child.

When I was young, I couldn't comprehend that I didn’t necessarily look like my peers. I would ask my mom why people were looking at me. They always wanted to touch my hair. Having an African mom, I was taught early on that you need to give your hair love. Once a week she would give my hair a deep wash, complete with a good scalp massage, followed by a hair mask, sometimes homemade with egg yolks. On the days my mom was working, my dad would do my hair for school, braiding it with fastidious care. My parents always preached love for my hair – its colour and its wild, do-as-it-wants nature.

I rarely gave the colour of my hair – my singular red hair – much thought. Instead, it was the texture that I acknowledged as different. My friends had hair that was smooth and straight; mine was not. I would diligently tame my mane, keeping it braided or pulled back in a tight, slick bun with lots of gel. In my teenage years, I would straighten my hair to look like theirs. I felt more beautiful like that.

Since I was four years old, I have worked as a model. My auburn red hair, defiantly curly, and my splattering of freckles were what made me stand out – the reason I was there. When I started working in New York and Los Angeles, my look was more openly acknowledged. Again, I would be asked about my hair – “Where did it come from? What is your heritage?” – always with respect and appreciation.

Related: Why is it so hard to get an afro hair cut in Stockholm?

By loving my hair, I can help others to love their hair, too. Growing up, there wasn’t anyone out there with my complexion. Someone to look up to. If I can be that person to someone, I am happy. New York, 2021. I gave birth to our baby girl, Iris. I had a water birth at home, surrounded by my husband, doula and midwife. My midwife helped me get Iris up on my chest. Looking down at her, my first sight was her red hair. Beautiful auburn, wavy hair.

Becoming a mother has made me think about the love my parents showed me growing up. I want my kids to love their hair – the texture and colour – and all the other things that make them unique. I want my daughter, Iris, to be able to read this, to be reminded of where she got her red hair from and, when in doubt, to always know how to love herself.

Iris, you might not always see someone in the room that looks like you and that’s okay. Your beautiful auburn red hair is part of your family lineage. Wear your crown with pride. I want you to be able to bloom into whatever you want to be. Know your value and the magic you bring into any room you enter. Embrace the things that make you, you, Iris.

Be proud. I am proud. I love you forever.

Love,

Mom