Grant shares how her art has carried her to become an artist in resident at Hamilton Art Council and the Cotton Factory. 

Dawn Grant has made her name in the art industry throughout the years as an artist who practices art through variety of ways, including hair, makeup, special effects and wearable arts.  

Grant’s love for art was instilled early as the daughter of an artist. She began her work as a painter when she moved to Toronto for school over a decade ago. Despite having an interest in painting, she admitted she and her parents wanted a sense of security when looking for employment.  

“I studied to do makeup complexions and that was it. I just decided that I needed to take my skill from painting on canvases to painting on faces — more for income,” said Grant. 

She has taken part in many projects, including helping design the visual aspects that go behind the creation of a character or create props for enhancing a scene. She loves the work she does through these projects and acknowledges they play a large part in fueling her other passions. 

For instance, working as a makeup artist for a project with Revlon led to her beginnings in wearable art.  

“I was working with Revlon and I was doing makeup for hair artists. One of the hair artists there, she had a sister who made fascinators— little tiny fascinators with the little feathers on it and that's what I started doing,” said Grant. 

However, Grant eventually began to stray away from using animal products in her wearable art and found interest in upcycling found objects for her wearable art projects.  Grant believes her image as an artist of wearable works has stood out largely due to this shift in the sourcing of items for her work. 

“I'd say I climbed to this wearable art side that I'm recognized now because I stopped working with feathers. It made me want to explore different organic stuff,” said Grant. 

Currently, she has just been selected as the Artist in Resident for the Hamilton Art Council and The Cotton Factory. This involves creating wearable pieces for exhibition in their spaces. For the first time in her lengthy art career, she will get to create art wearables without the pressure of consumption. In terms of consumption, she finds that sometimes her art is catered towards a specific audience, occasionally sidelining her her own voice in the process.  

Additionally she will host therapeutic art sit-ins, which encourage people to explore their own emotions through art. This is something she is very passionate about as she has been facilitating herself as well. She is appreciative of the opportunity and excited to explore in the position. 

“I'm grateful — that's all I can say. I'm grateful . . . It's been a long time since I've been able to create openly — they want me to create artistically and go as far as my mind can go and that's amazing,” said Grant. 

Grant shared advice for those who are pursuing art as a career. She believes it’s important to have a form of art for oneself and to separate it from the art that is used to make money. 

“I would say my biggest advice is to have two streams . . . Make your money but have your creative side,” said Grant. 

For example, Grant doesn’t sell her paintings even when people have offered to purchase them. She doesn’t like the anxiety and pressure associated with painting something others would like, so she keeps painting as her personal hobby.  

Ultimately, Grant continues to create work that is respected in the industry and gallery-based art fields. She has adapted to her profession and continues to take opportunities to learn more. She inspires those around her by working hard and focusing on her goals. As an artist in residence, she is using the title is to create art and to work with the community of Hamilton. 

The Wig Hall is an opportunity for students to try something new with their hair

After years of wearing the same hairstyles, second-year kinesiology student Inès Ndzana wanted to switch it up. Inspired by celebrities wearing wigs and weaves, Ndzana got a wig made when she was in Grade 11 and loved it.

A few years later, Ndzana learned how to make her own wigs and opened her business in October 2020. The Wig Hall offers custom wig construction as well as wig colouring and styling for ready-made wigs.

“I was always wearing wigs, switching it up. I just liked it. I have my curly one if I want to have fun. I have my short one if I want to be serious and professional. And I just liked how quickly I could switch it up,” explained Ndzana.

As someone who has always enjoyed challenging herself and learning new things, Ndzana had started exploring how to make wigs in early 2020. However, it was not until the early months of the pandemic that she had an opportunity to really dive into it and perfect her process. Using her mother’s sewing machine, she taught herself how to sew and made her first few wigs.

During her first year at McMaster University, she had also noticed that many of her friends would make trips back home just to get their hair done because they couldn’t find a stylist around campus or weren’t comfortable having their hair done by someone new.

“My friends always go back home to do their hair. I'm learning a new skill and I want to give out, you know? If I have the skill, I want to do it . . . There's obviously still room to grow, but for the most part, I feel like I perfected my wig making and I was like "okay, why not bring this to Mac? Why not bring this to campus so that girls don't always have to go so far if they want wigs or stuff like that?"” said Ndzana.

The Wig Hall is very much a student business for students. For example, one barrier Ndzana identified that might prevent those interested in wigs from trying them was the financial cost, as custom wigs can often be very expensive. So it’s very important to her that her business is accessible to students.

At its core, The Wig Hall is about giving people an opportunity to try new things, to take a leap of faith and to find something new that makes them feel good and comfortable in their own skin.

“I just hope that someone comes in and sees the style they've never tried and gets that style and they walk away loving it. Or they've never gotten colour on their head and they walk away loving it . . . I want everyone to walk away loving it, feeling inspired and just seeing it and be like, "I want to try that" or "we're gonna switch it up’ or ‘I'll get a longer length" or "I’ll go really short this time,"” said Ndzana.

[media-credit name="C/O Inès Ndzana" align="center" width="1920"][/media-credit]

Speaking of leaps of faith, starting The Wig Hall was a huge leap of faith for Ndzana. Initially, she had been nervous about the launch, unsure if anyone would be interested in her business, but it seems she needn’t have worried. The reception so far has been incredibly positive, which has been especially heartening.

She’s so glad now that she took that leap and encourages other students to do the same if they have an idea.

“If you have an idea and if you want to do something, you should absolutely do it because it's scary and it's daunting and it's anxious, but once you do start and once you get the ball rolling, it is very fun and you learn a lot of things and you enjoy the ride. So I would say if you have an idea, work on that idea, start it and a lot can come from it,” said Ndzana.

Through The Wig Hall, Ndzana is making wigs more accessible to students and giving them an opportunity to try something new. But more than that, her business is also an incredible example of the good things that can come from taking a leap of faith.

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Summer is approaching fast, and that means it’s either time to bring the dusty old razor out again, or leave your body hair as it is. Judgemental looks from other women or raised eyebrows from men are bound to make an appearance along with hairy legs. Women are expected to be hairless everywhere aside from the tops of their heads. It feels like the only alternative is to let everything go au natural, and be fiercely proud about it. I’ve got a third option: why don’t we stop caring entirely about other people’s body hair? Shaming someone for the way they manage their body hair says a lot more about the shamer than the shamed.

I have a lot of hair. I’ve been told that I have been blessed with a thick head of hair and should be thankful. While I am quite grateful, what my admirers tend to overlook is that when you have thick hair on your head, you probably have it everywhere else too. I’m not a fan, so I do what many other girls do and shave or wax it — as is my choice. Still, like many others, I remember a not-so-fond memory of being teased for having to shave back in elementary school. It had an impact on me.

Body hair shaming is entirely socially constructed. We teach our daughters from a young age that they need to get rid of their body hair. Just as we wouldn’t force a woman to wear make-up against her will, we shouldn’t be forcing women to remove or keep their body hair.

I was a victim of the body hair double standard: make sure it’s beautiful atop your head, but pretend it never exists anywhere else. I’m not sure who came up with the absurd notion that women are magically endowed with hairlessness, but I’ve got news for you: most human beings have some form of embarrassing and inconvenient hair somewhere on their bodies. Why is our head-hair considered so much more acceptable and attractive than our leg hair?

I was a victim of the body hair double standard: Make sure it’s beautiful atop your head, but pretend it never exists anywhere else.

The way you treat other people based on their body hair can have a very serious impact on how they feel about their bodies. This is not a decision to be made by anyone other than the owner of said body hair. It’s a matter of respecting people’s choices and allowing them to make their own decisions. When people are unhappy with their bodies, they make an effort to change them. Similarly, if a woman is unhappy with their body hair, then who are we to make statements about how much of a feminist she is based on her choices? No matter how feminist your politics, you do not have the right to tell a woman what she does with her body. We need to quit the body hair shaming and let women choose whether they want to love it or lose it.

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By: Jezerae Stewart/ Contributor

Very recently, my hair was braided into long box braids, and I have been given countless compliments on it. Despite the fact that I am extremely self-assured I have to admit it feels nice to hear such kind words, especially since I was so apprehensive to get the braids done the first place.

My concerns did not stem from inexperience. My hairstyles have changed over the years and braids have been a reoccurring look for me. They are low-maintenance and help keep my hair from drying out. Last year I wore my hair in braids for the first time in six years — the longest time I had gone without them. Initially I didn’t hide my braids, but I wasn’t showing them off either. I avoided taking pictures when out with my friends because I was afraid that people would judge my tresses before getting to know the person they were attached to. I didn’t want to be seen unkempt, unprofessional or undesirable. Having these ridiculous traits associated with braids, cornrows or dreads is not an uncommon experience for people of colour. A student from Claflin University in South Carolina was told that if she wanted to be successful in her internship that natural Black hairstyles, or “nappy [hair]” isn’t “happy here.”

Most of all I am upset knowing these stereotypes were influencing the way I feel about myself. In some respect, they always have. In the past year I’ve considered the influence of cultural appropriation and assimilation in my life. Dominant races are called ‘trendy’ when wearing cornrows or hoop earrings, whereas people of colour are labeled ‘ratchet.’ This is what cultural appropriation looks like. Kylie Jenner’s ‘boxer braids’ were labeled as a workout hairstyle, which completely disregarded the origin of the hairstyle. Just because the braids are commonly worn amongst female boxers and UFC fighters it does not mean we should call it anything other than what they actually are called — cornrows. I have avoided wearing sneakers, big hoop earrings, headscarves or anything that would signal my “blackness” as if it was a measure of my style. The fact that I feel inferior to White people when I wear braids stems from racism and assimilation. Instead of embracing the natural texture of my hair, I continue to treat (and damage) it to fit in. One could say that my personal experiences alone are not a reflection of societal attitudes towards black hairstyles, but as the Claflin University student can attest, this issue is bigger than myself.

I avoided taking pictures when out with my friends because I was afraid that people would judge my tresses before getting to know the person they were attached to. 

Maybe it was Beyoncé’s release of Formation or my recent obsession with Zoe Kravitz, but I am currently rocking box braids, wearing the latest addition to my sneaker collection (Nike Air Max 90’s if you must know) and for the first time in a long time I feel empowered. I am packing up the cultural normalcies that fostered my insecurities and sending them in a box to the left. The culture our society emulates will no longer make me feel like less than myself for embracing a part of my culture. At the end of the day I cannot tell another person how to dress or wear their hair, but hopefully different perspectives will facilitate understanding and respect for all expressions of culture.

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By: Sasha Dhesi

How many bad haircuts have you gone through before you settled on the one you currently have? If you’re anything like me, your hairstyle choice reflected something about you as you grew out of adolescence into this awkward post-child/pre-adult purgatory. The way in which we present ourselves can say a lot about who we are, after all.

I distinctly remember my first truly awful haircut. It was 2010. I had turned 13 a few months before and I had just seen (500) Days of Summer. The only thing I took from that movie was that Joseph Gordon-Levitt likes girls with straight bangs, so I decided, against my better judgment, to mimic the hairstyle. I remember looking into the mirror after the haircut, only then realizing that a simple hairstyle was not going to make me look like Zooey Deschanel, although I wasn’t going to admit that for another two years.

Whether we like it or not, we say a lot about our identities by the way that we style ourselves. After all, what are our aesthetics but the simplification of the self into a presentable, marketable thing? It’s well known that our teen years are spent developing our identities, creating the image that we feel best represents us without being alienating. Aesthetic choices are a big part of that, and the way in which we present ourselves ultimately speak volumes about the people we are.

I remember looking into the mirror after the haircut, only then realizing that a simple hairstyle was not going to make me look like Zooey Deschanel.

After that disastrous haircut, I decided to grow my hair out so I could donate it. As my hair grew, my tastes changed, and my look reflected that. Gone were the bangs and ill-fitting jeans of pre-adolescence, and in were the polka dotted dresses and acne-hiding locks. As I grew more and more fascinated with the styling of films like Amélie and the 1962 version of Lolita, my style grew into an obnoxiously cutesy fit, complete with bows, polka dots and oxfords. It’s safe to say that literally no one took me seriously from age 14 to 16.

A lot of people fall into the trap of believing that our ideas are permanent. The person you are now isn’t going to be the person you are a year, month or even a day from now. You learn new things about yourself, you encounter new experiences and you grow as an individual. Chances are that your style is going to reflect that. Don’t run from it, lean into it.

A few months before my 18th birthday, it was becoming increasingly clear that no one was going to take me seriously if I looked like an extra from a Wes Anderson movie. So I did something drastic and chopped most of my hair off and into a little chin-length bob, a harsh style when mixed with my naturally dark, straight hair. I learned two tidbits of information from this: unless you’ve done it many times before, cutting your own hair will only end badly and will require a trip to the hairstylist anyway, and your family members will freak out when they see that their almost adult relative has decided to play with scissors like a five year-old. I’m still glad I did it; the bob suits me and works well with the sleek silhouettes that I opt for now.

Our stylistic choices reflect the person we want to be perceived as, and that can say a lot about who we are. The Internet and social media add an interesting layer to this, as there’s probably a tutorial out there to perfect any look imaginable. It can be pretty frustrating sometimes seeing these 12-year-olds with perfectly curated Instagram grids, but I’ll manage. After all, in a few years, these same 12-year-olds will be berating themselves for their poor tastes as they continue to grow and evolve into the people they’re going to become.

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Stress manifests itself in many ways. During my transition to first year, I worried so much about my grades that my acne breakouts became worse than ever before. I lost ten pounds from eating irregularly and never had a proper sleep schedule. But none of these things particularly worried me: I had concealer for my pimples, breaks in between classes for naps, and losing weight, despite the probable long-term health consequences, was more preferable than the dreaded “freshman fifteen.” What plagued me the most was that I seemed to be losing a great deal of hair.

My hair would come out in clumps in the shower, to the point where I’d be glad for my near-sightedness. It littered the sink whenever I used my blow dryer. It created massive hairballs that collected on my carpet, and every time I cleaned out my comb. I began dreading visits to my hairdresser, mainly because he would always comment on how much less hair I had in comparison to the last time I had gone to see him.

I consulted my doctor, only to find she was equally baffled; my blood tests suggested everything was perfectly ordinary. She initially suggested iron supplements, but told me to stop after my iron levels became adequate despite no visible effects on my hair. I spent two and a half hours waiting in a walk-in clinic to get a different opinion, only to have my concerns dismissed. I switched shampoos, included more protein in my diet, and even stopped using straighteners and hair curlers altogether. But no matter how hard I tried, losing hair was the one thing I just couldn’t compensate for. I became acutely afraid of the inevitability of premature balding, for which there appeared to be no cure.

Most websites suggest hereditary reasons as the main cause of baldness. In addition to inheritance, they mention illness and of course, stress, which also tends to be the main explanation I get from friends after haranguing them with my complaints. But then I stumbled across a Marie Claire article on dealing with female hair loss, which mentioned roughly 24 percent of women equate losing hair to losing a limb. I began to wonder: what exactly constituted the exaggerated fear of losing all my hair? It wasn’t so much vanity as the abnormality with which we viewed female baldness.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I told myself how much easier it would be to deal with hair loss if I were a man. This is not to say that it isn’t also a concern for men, but to point out that male-patterned baldness is generally more accepted, particularly as we age. Dwayne Johnson is bald. Patrick Stewart is bald. Homer Simpson is bald. Even Aang from Avatar: The Last Airbender is willingly bald. The problem is that my mind stalls when I try to think of female icons without ample amounts of hair as a part of their regular appearance. If 40 percent of people who deal with hair loss are women, then why do we have this perception that women losing hair is both uncommon and unseemly?

Yes, losing hair is an issue. It may even be an important indicator in terms of signalling that something is wrong with our physical health, or that something is wrong with our lifestyle, and it should definitely be addressed to the best of our abilities. What needs to change, however, is the level of apprehension with which we view it. In the words of Cersei Lannister as she commences her walk of shame; hair grows back. And if it doesn’t?

I will not cringe for them.

Sophia Topper
Staff Reporter

I’m standing outside the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, gorging myself on a chocolate-covered Nanaimo bar when I feel a strange sensation at the back of my head. I pause, and once again I feel my hair being tugged. I turn around, and I’m suddenly face to face with a woman, who is currently stroking the ends of my hair.

“Never cut your hair,” she offers, as if caressing strangers is perfectly normal. She tells me she’s a hair dresser and continues, “I’m telling all my girls to grow their hair out now. Long thick hair is going to be big this spring!” I’m shocked, and as she continues to run her fingers through my almost waist length hair, I offer a confused “thank you?”

I’m not as surprised as one might expect. At the time, I had extremely thick, long hair. I was used to my friends asking to braid it, and even mere acquaintances discussing my hair with me, a topic that interested them far more than me. A few months later, I was approached again by two women who stroked my hair and demanded that I never cut it.

I didn’t listen, of course. I cut it all off after getting fed up by the fourteen hours it took to dry, and its propensity for getting caught in doors, sweaters and, most glamorously, my armpits. When I returned to school after the big chop, nearly eighty people commented, most with barely disguised disappointment. My hair raises some very strong opinions, and it isn’t even very interesting.

My personal space violations were nothing compared to what people of colour face every day. Living on the ethnically homogeneous Vancouver Island, my friend Tokoni regularly had people ask to touch her braids, and for anyone sporting a ‘fro, the intrusions are even more frequent.

Why do people think that hair is immune to the keep-your-hands-to-yourself rule we all had drilled into us in kindergarten? Why does anyone even want to touch it? Hair is such a contentious issue in society, from the choice to leave it natural for black women, to covering it up for Muslim women to growing it out for men. When I cut my hair, I even had someone ask “so does this mean you’re gay now?”

Hair is another way to signal our identity to the world, but unlike throwing on a Grateful Dead tee, growing it out or cutting it off takes a lot more commitment. It goes beyond just aesthetics, and how much or how little time we put into it shows a lot about how we feel. Just look at the difference between the hairstyle of choice during the first week of school, all clean and styled, and during exams, when greasy ponytails prevail.

Hair is a method of expression, and identifying what niche one belongs to. To end with the words of Timbuk3, “how well do we use our freedom to choose the illusions we create?”