Fashion has always been political. How people dress, what they choose to wear, is a reflection of their innermost tastes and preferences. Fashion is an extended form of self-advertisement. For centuries women have used their appearance as a means to exert political influence. Coco Chanel once said: “A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.” Throughout history a woman’s hair has always mattered when putting together her ensemble.

So when I read the heartfelt post by Lupita Nyong’o last week – the actor, who won an Oscar for 12 Years a Slave, expressed her disappointment that her image had been so significantly altered by Grazia UK – I was surprised at how little it surprised me. They had lightened her skin, smoothed the kinks in her hair and removed her frizzy, afro pony tail – leaving a more slick, stereotypical representation of African women in fashion: bald.

This follows the London Evening Standard magazine’s decision, less than a month ago, to delete the cover star and African-American singer Solange Knowles’s braided crown. This resonates because the removal of an African woman’s hair (without her consent) has a much darker history than any white photographer or magazine editor may realise.

Lupita Nyong'o (@Lupita_Nyongo) Disappointed that @GraziaUK edited out & smoothed my hair to fit a more Eurocentric notion of what beautiful hair looks like. #dtmh pic.twitter.com/10UUScS7Xo

Personally, I have never been that bothered about hair. As a granddaughter of West Indian immigrants, I have always been well aware that hair has for centuries been used as an identifier of racial superiority and class under British rule throughout the empire. Even if you had a darker complexion, you were deemed “tolerable” on the spectrum of racial discrimination if you had long, silky, non-frizzy curls. I fell within this category growing up, so I must admit to a level of complacency that prevented me from truly appreciating why hair has been such a big issue for black women over the years.

It was not until my second year at university that I stumbled across a library full of books that were designed solely for the justification of imperialism, slavery and white supremacy. The study of physiognomy, the art of judging human character from facial features, was used by many generations of politicians, slave owners and artists to present the argument that the more European (white) a person’s features, the better their character and more beautiful their appearance; the more Afrocentric a person (dark skin tone, high cheek bones, broad nose, thick lips, frizzy hair), the greater their social inferiority – and an automatic exclusion from the mainstream vision of beauty. I felt physically sick as I waded through it all for the sake of an essay on Jane Eyre.

Lupita Nyong’o accuses Grazia of editing her hair to fit 'Eurocentric' ideals Read more

The literary criticism that I had uncovered highlighted a conversation concerning racial politics that even Charlotte Brontë felt was important and needed to be discussed during her lifetime. How society presents its ideals of acceptable beauty is important. It is even more powerful when it is in print. The media have always represented the main channel of communication between those who seek to shape society, and those who are compelled to obey. By presenting the very concept of physiognomy in her most famous novel, Brontë highlighted the connection between imperialism, race and the forces that influenced society’s perceptions of beauty.

The concept of “afro” still confuses many people, perplexing the fashion editors of the west. Afro hair is naturally rebellious in its refusal to lie straight. It responds to humidity. It can be elastic to the touch, soft, coarse, curly and textured all at the same time. No ’fro is exactly the same. Some choose to braid, others twist. Some straighten, others pin. The end result is usually a work of art that often prompts the viewer to ask “Can I touch it?”. Most already have their fingers in your hair before it has even occurred to them that they might be invading your personal space.

“Don’t touch my hair … don’t touch my soul” Solange Knowles sang in her 2016 anthem. Some may scoff at the apparent connection between a black woman’s hair and her spirit. But the cultural significance of a black woman’s hair and her heritage transcends cultural perceptions of beauty. One of the first things stripped from the African women as they boarded the slave ships in shackles was their hair. Intricate braids, styles generic to their tribes – signalling their identity – were forcibly removed by the slavers. All traces of individuality and creativity were thrown overboard. Upon their arrival, they were branded and made to wear a headscarf by their (white) mistresses – elaborate hairstyles were strictly forbidden.

“Don’t touch my hair” is an imperative. It represents the black woman’s agency and refusal to be censored via her appearance. Slavery ended more than 200 years ago, so why do the editors, the art directors and the photographers still feel the need to “edit” out a black woman’s afro hair and features?

Well to put it plainly: “Good hair means curls and waves/Bad hair means you look like a slave.” The lyrics of India Arie’s 2006 song I Am Not My Hair offer another explanation behind the effects of slavery and physiognomy’s lasting influence on public perception of beauty. It also provides some context to the frustration felt by Nyong’o at her frizzy hair being treated as a flaw that needed to be erased from her portrait.

Nyong’o wrote: “I am disappointed that Grazia UK invited me to be on their cover and then edited out and smoothed my hair to fit their notion of what beautiful hair looks like. Had I been consulted I would have explained that I cannot support the omission of what is my native heritage. There is still a very long way to go to combat the unconscious prejudice against black women’s complexion, hair style and texture.”

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You see this was never just about the hair. It’s about a person’s right to simply be. Confined for almost 500 years in the shadow of service and slavery, women of colour are increasingly demanding a say in how history portrays them. The decision to “edit” out a person’s natural features is not something that should be dismissed. It exposes a society that preaches liberalism and acceptance, but does not practise it. It uncovers a culture that champions inclusivity while excluding anyone that does not subscribe to their narrative.

Nyong’o objects that she was not consulted. The editors removed key features of her African heritage – without her consent. Her desire to encourage other women to celebrate what is still considered by too many an unconventional beauty was censored. In an insincere attempt to appear as though they had finally embraced diversity, black beauty and all that it had to offer – these editors have uncovered, yet again, the rotten stench of imperialism.

• Yasmin Jones-Henry is a journalist and the editor of workinfashion.me