I just wanted my smear test when the nurse touched my hair

It was supposed to be a routine appointment.

I was at my cervical screening.

I know this is something most people find uncomfortable, but I went in feeling somewhat calm. The nurse was chatty, warm and inviting. We’d made small talk about the weather, kids and holidays.

We got through the horrid bit, where the cells are removed from the cervix, and I got myself dressed. I was OK.

It felt safe.

Until it didn’t.

As I was putting my other foot into my flip flop, getting ready to leave, the nurse ran all four of her fingers through my hair.

Just like that. No warning. No ‘Can I?’. Just a hand fondling my braids, while she cooed about how lovely they were, literally moments after her hands had been in my nether regions.

I froze. My body tensed in a way it hadn’t even during the screening. I literally crumbled inside. I’d been made to feel small, and different, made to feel like an ‘attraction’.

But the nurse carried on like it was normal. Like it was her right.

‘What the hell just happened?’, I thought. A medical professional had just petted me like an animal, completely overstepping the mark in thrusting herself into my personal space – and she’d disregarded any cultural differences that we had.

I felt deeply exposed. Someone had crossed a line I hadn’t even known needed defending in that setting.

Let me be clear: my hair is not public property.

The unsolicited touching of Black hair is not new, but it is persistent and exhausting. It is a microaggression wrapped in curiosity, often delivered with a smile, but its impact lands heavy every time.

Like the time I was taking my son to school and one of the mums stroked my son’s newly cut head like he was a puppy.

My son looked up at me, confused and uncomfortable. He didn’t have the words yet, but I could see it in his eyes: ‘Why did she do that?’. (He’s now vehemently against people touching his head).

Another time, I was heading into a potential funders meeting at work, hair newly washed and coils set, and a colleague walked past. ‘Oh, I love the new hair’, she said, and then reached out and ran her hands through my curls.

It was as if the ‘compliment’ gave her permission to cross a boundary. 

And then there was the business event, when I was dressed up and feeling fly, where a fellow speaker told me my hair looked ‘so fun’ and reached out to touch it before I could step back.

I left that event feeling small – like no matter what I wore, how well I spoke or how I carried myself, I would always be seen as ‘other.’

But perhaps the most jarring moment was when someone literally reached through the open window of my car and stroked my daughter’s curls.

Let me repeat that: a stranger put her hand through my window and touched my child.

I was speechless. My daughter was terrified. We were both violated.

But this isn’t just about hair. It never was.

Unsolicited touching of Black hair is rooted in entitlement. It reinforces the belief, whether conscious or not, that Black bodies are curiosities, existing for consumption and commentary. That we are ‘exotic.’ 

It teaches our children that their boundaries don’t matter. That their discomfort isn’t valid. That their autonomy is optional.

And that is dangerous.

Because when you grow up constantly having parts of yourself touched, questioned, or commented on without consent, it chips away at your sense of safety. It teaches you to tolerate intrusion. To question whether you’re being too sensitive. To wonder if you’re the problem for not wanting to be handled like a museum exhibit.

The day the nurse touched my hair, I didn’t say anything. I wish I had addressed it in the moment. But I’d been caught off guard, yet again.

If I could do it again I’d say: It is not okay to touch someone’s hair without their permission. Not ever.

Not because ‘it looks soft’. Not because ‘it’s just so different’. Not because ‘I’ve never seen curls like that before’.

The solution is simple: just ask. Or, better yet, resist the urge altogether.

Respect is silent, consensual, and deeply felt. It doesn’t require explanation or negotiation. It is enough to know that, if the answer might be no, maybe the question shouldn’t be asked at all.

For me, this is about raising my kids in a world where their boundaries are honoured. It’s about making space for Black people to exist without being touched, commented on, or reduced to ‘inspiration’.

We are whole. We are human. We deserve to feel safe in our bodies, and in our hair.

That’s why I complained to the surgery.

Thankfully some good came out of me speaking up. All surgery staff will now be required to complete EDI and cultural sensitivity training in the hope that this never happens again. 

This feels like a ripple effect of being vocal about my experience-and taking something that was a very negative situation for me and turning it into an opportunity to create change.

For that I’m grateful… despite it being a smear test I’d much rather have never had!

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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