‘Why doesn’t my hair swish like other girls?’
At only five years old, my daughter looked up at me with curiosity in her eyes.
It stopped me cold. I realised what I was seeing was my daughter figuring out the difference between her, and the beauty standards society abides by – white, with long blonde hair.
But I found the possibility that she might feel and believe she wasn’t enough troubling.
That was the moment everything started to change for me.
I didn’t set out to be an activist. My goal was simply to be a good dad – loving, attentive, protective and fun.
Black History Month
October marks Black History Month, which reflects on the achievements, cultures and contributions of Black people in the UK and across the globe, as well as educating others about the diverse history of those from African and Caribbean descent.
For more information about the events and celebrations that are taking place this year, visit the official Black History Month website.
I thought activism meant protests, placards and putting principles into action. I boycotted brands if they were known to have used child or slave labour, but I didn’t see myself as part of the activism world.
But, as a father of three Black and mixed-race daughters, I’ve come to realise that being a dad and being an activist are inseparable. And the work had to start at home.
So when my daughter asked about her hair, we didn’t dismiss her feelings; we listened.
We bought books like Hair Love, The Mega Magic Hair Swap! and Love Thy Fro, which all featured girls who resembled her. We watched programmes like That Girl Lay Lay; Doc McStuffins and Ada Twist, Scientist, where girls like her played the heroes.
We discussed relatable women such as Maya Angelou and Frida Kahlo, who didn’t conform to narrow beauty standards, yet radiated strength because of their differences.
We filled our home with these affirmations. I understood that if the world was going to try to tell my daughter she wasn’t enough, I needed to be the louder voice saying otherwise – and it didn’t take long for the girls to appreciate their individual qualities.
These kinds of conversations have since been a regular feature in our home. Teaching my daughters to love their hair, their skin, their voices isn’t just parenting: it’s activism.
Throughout it all, I learnt to be attentive to my daughters.
So, when a few years ago, I noticed that one of my daughters – aged 11 or 12 at the time – had become emotionally withdrawn, I knew to ask what was wrong.
Fatherhood has taught me that representation is a lifeline
She was not very forthcoming at first, concerned about how she thought the issue would be dealt with – but the acknowledgement of her concerns led her to open up eventually.
We discovered that she’d been targeted repeatedly with racist name-calling and exclusion.
I immediately called the school, a well-respected establishment. They were initially unresponsive and slow to address the matter, and when they responded, they were dismissive and defensive.
Their intervention was to issue a detention and ask the girl to write a letter of apology. She began the letter ‘Dear Year 7 Girl’.
My daughter wasn’t being protected by the school, so after exhausting every route, we made the painful decision to withdraw her. It felt like giving up, but actually, it was about reclaiming her right to feel safe, seen, and respected.
We couldn’t change the institution, but we could change how important she felt.
What with the questions my daughters asked, the racist school incidents, the media they consumed, the way the world responded to them, and the way they responded to themselves – I realised that if I didn’t step in early to shape their view of who they are and what they deserve, someone, or something else, would.
Fatherhood has taught me that representation is a lifeline.
Black girls in particular don’t get to see themselves celebrated simply for being smart, kind, ambitious or brave. And children, and girls in particular, face a new and unique set of challenges in their identity formation that we, as parents, never encountered when we were growing up – social media.
It has intensified this struggle, warping the development of self-worth by tying success and validation to appearance and likes. Studies have shown that getting fewer ‘likes’ can actually cause distress in adolescents.
The implications for young girls of colour growing up in this climate – where fringe ideologies gain airtime, legitimacy and clout – are really unsettling, whether that’s being constantly judged, dealing with repeated micro-aggressions and discriminated against. This can set back belief systems and careers before they’ve even begun.
That’s why I believe my role as a father extends far beyond simply providing for, protecting, and loving my daughters. Just showing up with love, consistency, and intention, as a father, can feel like a radical act when, in an ideal reality, it shouldn’t – it also involves fighting their corner within the wider societal landscape.
Even before I became a dad, when I was a support worker for young offenders, I realised how important healthy narratives of relatable characters and everyday heroes in the formative years lay the foundation for self-belief.
A good role model could’ve changed the course of their lives.
Representation really does matter. So I decided to be that change for my daughters.
With my sister Kerrine – an engineer, and one of the few Black women in her field – we created a children’s publishing house called Butterfly Books.
We publish stories of mums who are firefighters and footballers to dads who are nurses – stories that plant seeds.
We wanted to show them women who lead, fix, build, and win — not in fairy tales but in real life.
As a dad and as a writer that’s what I try to do every day: interrupt the negative narrative with something gentler but no less empowering, and sometimes that happens in a bedtime story.
I don’t have all the answers, but I do know parenting with intention is one of the most radical things a man can do.
Especially if you’re raising girls in a culture that so often tries to define them before they’ve had a chance to define themselves.
Even though I became an activist by accident, I’ll keep showing up, one quiet act at a time and one bedtime story at a time — until the world catches up.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk.
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