A statement of Pride with Favour Jonathan

London-based multidisciplinary artist Favour Jonathan holds her head high, her gaze steady, and her hair sculpted in illustrious patterns. For her, afro-textured hair is archive and engine: a history of strength, resilience and beautiful defiance, but also a playground for outrageous creativity. Eight years in the making (and still counting), the hair project A Statement of Pride was seeded by the kind of comments meant to sting. She watered them with intention, and the result echoes a rebuttal that says afro hair should be worn with nothing but confidence. Gravity-defying – yes, literally growing upwards – afro hair was never meant to be concealed, never meant to be diminished. In a style that’s reminiscent of a Nigerian kiosk hair salon, the photobooth ID images show Favour morphing from one hairstyle into another.  Some adorned with beads, others with golden hoops. With everyday snapshots, she captures seasons of self, shifting mood and the courage and quiet boldness that comes with ageing. Because hair isn’t only about rebellion; it’s comfort. It’s letting your inner weather show. Afros insist on patience; braiding teaches it. You slow down. You take care.

Between the intricate cornrows tells a story of black girlhood – one that can be felt and recognised amongst those relationships with hair was an uphill journey. With A Statement of Pride, Favour reminds us of the community that comes with textured hair, found in YouTuber communities, under TikTok hashtags, and in your local hair salon. She beckons us to look back to the women before with gratitude, then much further — past the present, into the speculative future where we’re all a little freer, a little wilder and a lot more stylish. There’s determination in her voice when she speaks about that horizon. We listen, and we lean in; the parting already suggests a route forward.

Hiii! How is London treating you these days?
I was at a workshop yesterday, and it was suspiciously hot outside. Mentally, I have to prepare for the darkness and the cold that come with winter. I’m just too black for this. 

Tell me about it, haha. But to brighter things. Eight years and some 300 looks later, your hair project, A Statement of Pride, is an archive of intricate hairstyles. Can you tell us how it began? What does the project represent to you now?
I started the project for many reasons, but a big one was an incident that happened at school. It was a sunny day, and my afro was huge, blown out and perfect. When you get your hair done, you feel like the power that comes with Black girls doing their hair is something else. It needs to be studied. A girl came up behind me and put her hand in my hair and said, “Oh my God, it feels just like pubic hair”. That moment ruined my day, and for the rest of the year, I kept giving her bad looks. It was one of those experiences that stays with you. Then obviously, when you’re at work, and you change your hair, it almost feels like a new scene in a movie. Everyone gravitates towards it. You feel amazing indoors, but immediately as you step out, you have this anxious feeling, which makes sense because you realise that it will draw attention to it, comments, or people want to touch it. But in the end, it’s still a statement of pride. It’s what makes me feel beautiful and powerful. Whenever I’m having a bad day, I can just make my hair and my mood is instantly changed. Sometimes I wear a long bust-down weave and, be like, “I’m Beyoncé in the concert. This is my crowd”, even if I’m just going to Tesco.

First off, the pubic hair comment is crazy, fuck that. Afro hair is so regal, and truly is something to cherish and be proud of.
That’s it. Culturally and historically, Black hair has always been something people tried to control or diminish. For example, ideas of good hair and bad hair or the aspect of relaxers and hair straightening, teach you not to love this thing that is so crowd-pulling. And it’s the same thing the Black Panther did, drawing power from their hair. When I started the project, I definitely wanted to show the strength and the beauty in black hair. But I also wanted to document what one single black woman can do with their hair in a decade. If you get a shock every time I change my hair, imagine what other black women are doing. 

You referenced Black Panther and their iconic ‘fro’s. Another major event during our generation was also the (continuation of) natural hair movement around the 2010s, especially on social media. It really solidified that my hair is something to be excited about.
Yeah, and that is why I love YouTube. I was not a big subscriber, and I am not very tech savvy, so I do not always know what I am doing, but if I go on YouTube and type in natural hair, there are women all over the world teaching you what to do. It feels like we have this community –  this sisterhood for this sort of hair texture that inspires you to venture out and explore.

Exactly!
There was also that incident in South Africa, where the young Black girls were having to fight for their hair, just to wear their Afros out. I think that was 2017. I saw those little girls and thought, yes, this is something to fight for. You’re just a kid in school. So what did they expect you to do? Get a wig? Get your hair permed? It’s an Afro. You can’t do anything; this is just how it is. It’s almost embedded in us that a relaxer is part of puberty, and you get excited when you reach the age to use it. Because that happens at such a young age, you get used to your relaxed hair, and when you’re exposed to natural hair, you feel alienated and ashamed of it, associating it with house help in those Nollywood movies, or not having enough money. But I can have all the money in the world, and my Afro will still be as powerful as it is. 

A hundred per cent. My hair was permed regularly from such a young age that I grew up not even knowing what my natural hair texture felt like, until I was 15. I started experimenting with my hair around then, and some comments got kind of weird.
As soon as those comments come to you, you’re followed by this sadness, even if you’re having a good day. I feel it in my chest and in my gut. I was proud when I left the house, and now it feels like I am not a baddie, not that girl, not expensive, just because I have my Afro. That is really unfair, because my hair is simply amazing. If you knew what it could do, you would know how much power I carry. It can make you start believing it is not “good hair”, and it is 2025, I should not still be made to feel like that. With this project, I wanted to give power and strength back to Black women. I want to show all the styles I’ve worn in a decade, and there is still so much more to explore. I don’t want any Black woman to dim her light or tone down her hairstyle just to avoid comments, even the “I liked the other hair on you” kind – that still hurts. I just want women to feel encouraged to know and understand their texture.

How do you pick yourself up after such comments?
I’m 29 now, but when I was younger, it used to really hurt. I’ve never changed my hair just to fit in, but it still got to me. But after some time, I started to care less about what other people thought. That shift is not only about hair. It is about your body, your skin. It’s about everything. I also have all these references, like Audre Lorde. You’ve probably seen her photos – she was a TWA girl. And I can’t help but think, with all the power she has given us, with all her words, intelligence, everything – you choose the afro as your sense of control. I, too, am choosing my hair as a sense of strength. My hair doesn’t dictate what I do.

If Audre can do it with a TWA, we can do anything.
There was also this once when I was wearing simple braids, and this auntie looked at me and said that she wished she could wear her hair like that, but that it wasn’t work-appropriate. Jobs dictate how we should wear our hairstyles, and let’s not forget, you could be spending 10, 20 years in that job. It’s so incredibly limiting. This will then influence and shape how you see yourself, even after you leave that job. With this project, I want to show Black women that you can still do incredible things and wear your hair exactly how you want, and over time, you start seeing yourself in the reflection of the women before you – the writers, the elders, the Black women at NASA with their hair out – and you realise you don’t need to worry. Those worries come with being young and not really seeing representation around. But the more you read, the more women you discover,  the more you start feeling that strength. That’s why I love the natural hair movement. No matter where you are in the world, you can still read and learn about it. 

I love the format of the photos, reminiscent of old Nigerian salon posters with the flat backdrop, direct gaze and aspirational hair. Do you have any specific memories connected to these posters?
I have always loved it since I was a kid. I grew up in Nigeria, where you have these little kiosks with hair posters on the side. Sometimes it’s not even posters. It’s been painted. I was creative since I was young, and I was always a visual learner. As an artist, when I see images with all these different styles, my brain literally goes wild. When you can’t think of what to do with your hair, those images are there to inspire you, representing all the choices you have. You can also combine them – taking one part from one hairstyle and removing other parts. That’s something that I found beautiful. When I was starting the project, I was making it in this salon style form, thinking it would be recognisable to black women. No matter where you’re from, you’ve probably seen a version of this, and I wanted to take from that and use it as a means to trigger memories and nostalgia. And to also say, please don’t leave this behind! It’s such a beautiful format. Now with social media, it’s like I see a version of these formats on  TikTok and YouTube, reflecting these posters from back in the day. Overall, it was also an artistic choice. 

You document this project in photobooth’s across London. What made that tiny space the “temple” for this project?
I was mainly thinking of identification, location, and where you’re from. When people start touching your hair, questioning it, giving looks or wanting to randomly take a picture next to you, you’re like, “No, I’m literally just going to the shop to buy something.” Why do you need to take a photo of this? These sorts of things reminded me that my hair is my identity. It’s me. And the photo booth was one thing I could link towards identification. I was also thinking that within 10 years, the lighting and setting won’t change, so it was also a strategic choice to make the photograph stay consistent instead of trying to make the light and background uniform to document things in. So what can I keep consistent for 10 years? And the photo booth was right there. And what is the photo booth for? Your identity, who you are as a person.

I see the distinction. Your project has been running for 8 years now. Do you see any difference from the first time you started till now, and what have you learned or discovered in hindsight?
When I started, I thought I was only documenting hairstyles. But I’m also documenting growth and ageing, and I get to see a timeline from 7 years ago til now. I take the photos naturally and don’t overly edit them because I don’t want to have other women feel like this is some impossible standard to reach – or that this is some high-fashion photoshoot. It’s just normal pictures, normal hair, normal situation, and I want you to be able to relate. With this timeline, I got to see the times when my mental health wasn’t great, when I had a spark in my eyes, and so many other emotions. So it all started off as just an idea and a project, but it grew along with time, and that’s kind of the beauty of it, because you’re just doing something intuitively, and you start seeing the puzzles fall together into place.

It’s always a fun surprise to revisit your pieces to find something new in them. You’re also a multidisciplinary artist, working with mediums like metal. What would a true meeting of your metal practice and your hair sculptures look like?
There hasn’t been, but there will be a crossover starting at the end of this month. My metal work was very much separated, where I was mainly tackling topics of black British and Nigerian, doing research about 19th-century looted artefacts and talking about issues that touch me personally. I’m a very emotional babe. My artwork also gives honour to all these powerful women who have also grown me as a person. They’ve given me the confidence with their careers, achievements, and with their constant push for better. I’m always pushing to make sure everyone’s cared for, just like the women before me who made changes so that by 2025, Black women are more seen and have a voice. Now I’m starting to create figures with braids that I would love to exhibit in a room with my hairstyle photos scaled up, where you’re walking around sculptures of these braided figures, surrounded by this wallpaper of this one woman changing throughout the years. 

You’ve talked about those Black women in history who keep you going. Who or what are you pulling energy from these days?
Women inspire me. I think it stems from not having parents or a woman figure who is constantly nurturing and kind to you. I made a sculpture that is currently at the Black Cultural Archive in Brixton, and I discovered Claudia Vera Jones, the mother of Notting Hill Carnival. I knew about her before, but I didn’t know her history. So when I started researching about her, I found out she lived only about 40 minutes away from me. She had the West India Gazette, not enough money to get by, but she pushed, and she did all these things. She is the strength that I need to keep pushing on because this is one woman who had nothing. So when I have nothing, I’m always having these women in my mind. And I remember that I can just be me, and still make a change. Even Bell Hooks and her book All About Love, which I’m currently reading. I feel so grateful for the things they left behind – it’s like you get a peek into what’s on their minds. It’s almost like they are your mothers, and they’re leaving trinkets, power and strength for you to pick up. I’m a foster kid, and sometimes you might feel your future is not very much set up in the right way, or that you’re battling with mental health issues. But there’s a black woman out there who has everything that you’re worried about. And she still made a difference; that’s why representation is so vital for breaking barriers. That’s also something that, within my work, I hope that black girls are looking at me and thinking, “Oh, I didn’t know we could do metal work”. It’s usually a male-dominated field, so when you see this young black girl creating giant metal sculptures, I’m picturing a 16-year-old watching me, realising that they also can do something. That’s why I have always shared my videos online, since 2017, showing videos of me making things.

I love that, and representation IS vital. Your craft is like a relay baton – these icons from the past passed you strength, and you’re passing it straight on to the next Black girls. If you had the opportunity to do someone else’s hair, a celebrity or otherwise, is there anyone that comes to mind?
Well, I have some nerves related to that, because I feel like I’ve mastered my own hair very well, but a lot of people have different hairlines. I always say there’s a difference between a stylist and a hairdresser. Some people can just braid, and some people can look at your face and see which angle the braids need to go to shape your face and do it. That’s something that I know that I’m able to do, but I haven’t yet done. I have been offered an opportunity to do someone’s hair, a celebrity, a musician, but I said no because I was so nervous. But that was years ago. Now I think if I do have that opportunity, I’m more confident and enthusiastic about the things that I can do. Tookiedidit, an American artist who is doing all these wild, different hairstyles, and she does Doechii’s hair, and her DJ’s hair as well. The styles and the freedom that she has when it comes to creating patterns in people’s hair is so inspiring to the point that I realised I do have the confidence to do someone else’s hair. I don’t know who specifically, it could be anyone, but it would be like a piece of artwork.

Do you have any little rituals before you start a long hair session?
Hair day is actually really exciting for me, because then I get to shut off the entire world, and my phone is on do not disturb. I’ve got snacks, I’ve got a big mirror in front of me, and I’m watching a movie. Like in my artistic practice, I tend to get hyper-focused when I’m working, and that includes braiding. With myself, I get it exactly how I like it, and I can always redo parts I don’t like.  It’s a self-care day that I look forward to, and sometimes, even when my hair doesn’t need taking down, I will redo my hair just because I’m craving that intimacy with myself and with my hair. To just be, have that sense of quiet and make something I’m happy with.

I hear you. The world moves so fast, but when you have to braid your hair, it literally forces you to sit down for eight hours straight,  slow down, spend time and look after yourself. What is a passing thought that stuck with you while you were braiding your hair?
It’s just one of those things Afro hair forces you to. Your hair wants you to detangle it from the ends to your roots, and when you start forcing it through, you start having breakage, and you just end up frustrated, arms hurting. I know some people hate hair days, but I think it’s the quiet time confronting yourself that might be most upsetting. And then we just might want to rush through everything, but afro hair says no to all of that, and the beauty that comes with that patience and time spent is incredible – it’s almost like a dopamine hit afterwards.  So, one word that I can think of that always comes through whenever I’m doing my hair is patience. I sometimes talk about people just wanting wash-and-go’s, but I’m also human, and sometimes I want things to go a bit quicker, but in a world of constant scrolling and fast everything, doing my hair has trained me to slow down and carry that patience into other aspects of my life. It’s also about recognising that you deserve that time and that peace.

We love our Nigerian proverbs and saying, “patience is a virtue”, but it genuinely is, and you constantly practise this through your hair. What are the go-to hairstyles that you can’t live without?
Because I’m a metal worker, I’m constantly being in and out of a helmet, so hairstyles like cornrows, faux locs, or braids are definitely the three masters of everything. I can easily just put in my durag or my headscarf, and then put my helmet over. These styles are all so beautiful, and with the cornrows especially, there are so many beautiful patterns to explore.

Changing hairstyle feels like shedding skin, choosing which version of yourself you want to accentuate next. How do you decide what or who to channel next?
My hair is very mood-driven. My mental health hasn’t been great since childhood in foster care. I know I’m sensitive to certain things, so if I’m in a depressive period, I don’t enjoy anything touching me. All the long hairstyles have to go. I don’t want any extra sensations on my body, so I’ll probably just have cornrows that sit at the back. But if I’m in a phase where I don’t feel strong, I’ll channel a music video or a look that fuels me. If I see a hairstyle that looks beautiful, fun, or dramatic, I’ll take inspiration from that energy. Sometimes I feel like trying something crazy and completely out there. Everything is driven by my mood and not I’m style to look a certain way. It’s more about making myself feel comfortable and to match where I’m at basically.

You’re coming up on a decade of this work – what haven’t you tried yet, hairstyle-wise or format-wise, that you’re itching to experiment with?
I really want to try lace wigs and glue-on installs, and I want to learn from the Legends – the ones doing Beyonce’s lace, because where’s the lace? I can’t see anything. Until then, lace is the one style I haven’t tried. Everything else I’ve mostly explored, and there’s still so much more I want to do. A lot of styles are “same but different” – simple straight-back cornrows, but the pattern switches everything up; basic braids you can curl into those little circles everyone’s doing right now. There are add-ons to all hairstyles, so I’m exploring different ways of having your hair, and recently, I discovered hair moulding from this creator who shapes her afro into stars and hearts and all sorts of different things. It’s incredible, really, and I would have never thought to mould my afro. For the future, I want to be able to bring more height and drama into my own style, especially for things like Notting Hill Carnival. As I get older, I want to get even wilder and bolder, contrasting with my younger self.

In the Black hair community, there often seems to be a split – you’re either in your braids, cornrows and natural styles, or you’re in the bust-down lace installs and wigs. How does this inform how you’ve approached hair styling?
For me, a statement of pride means that, however I wear my hair, I wear it with intention and confidence. That’s why shaming Black women for certain hairstyles feels so unfair. Someone feels most themselves in a sleek straight wig, another in a big fro or braids, and suddenly there’s this judgment that one is less “authentic” than the other. In my head, that always turns into the same question of why anyone is dictating what another Black woman chooses to put on her own head. So it hasn’t necessarily informed me; it was more of a preference. Another crucial thing is, you also want to protect your own hair and wear protective hairstyles to protect from the weather or whatever it may be. Timewise as well – I’m thinking about mums in the morning, readying the kids for school. Big women doing big women jobs, you expect them to spend how long in the morning trying to perfect their hair before they go? Honey, put on that wig and get to your job because you’re making a difference in life.
I just want black women to be comfortable in how they choose to wear their hair.  We’ve been made uncomfortable for way too long.

There we have it, the silver lining. You’ve previously hinted at doing a masculine version of this project, archiving hairstyles on the male scalp. What made you want to bring men into your next project, and how does your gaze shift when it isn’t your own head?
It started from my little obsession with ’90s men’s cuts and all those old-school haircut charts. I came across this image of different styles on men and realised I’d never really thought deeply about a man’s hair before. That sent me down a rabbit hole of musicians who are known for their hair and, at the same time, made me clock how different the pressure is for black women compared to men. I remember walking to the gym and seeing a guy in the street with half his cornrows still in, clearly mid take-down, picking up a kid from school. If I dared to leave the house like that, especially in Nigeria, I would have been finished. People would call me crazy or unkept. I want to highlight the double standards and restrictions that exist for black women’s hair, but evade black men. At the end of the day, it reflects the overall pressure for women in general to look and present themselves in a certain way.