They told Chloe and Halle Bailey that their locs were not marketable. That is the part that never leaves you, no matter how far you rise. It always begins with a sentence—casual, disguised as advice, possibly dropped in a green room or muttered behind a casting call. They'll say something like, "You'd be more versatile with straight hair," or "Have you ever thought about switching it up?" And what they truly mean is: you're too black. Too daring. Too rooted in something we haven't yet made room for. Instead of shrinking or folding, Chloe and Halle stood up straighter. They allowed their hair to grow the way their forefathers did—outward, upward, and unapologetically—and the industry watched, initially uneasy, then enthralled, and finally in wonder. What they said would hold them back became the defining feature of their accent.

It wasn't just about hair; it never is. It was about identity. About walking into rooms that weren't meant for them and deciding they belonged anyway. Wearing your roots on your head, physically, has a great spiritual significance. Locs carry stories. They carry prayers. They embody rebellion, softness, and history. So when people in power told these two young women that their hair would not fit into the highly curated aesthetic of Hollywood or mainstream music, what they really meant was that their truth did not fit. That their true, natural, unfiltered identities were incompatible with achievement. However, Chloe and Halle did not internalize that lie. Instead, they decided to carry the weight of it gracefully until it turned into wings.

The truth is, there’s a quiet violence in being asked to change who you are to be seen. Most people give in. Not because they want to, but because they’ve been taught that survival requires it. And yet, Chloe and Halle didn’t give in. They wore their locs through every stage of their rise—from homegrown YouTube covers to world tours, from red carpets to magazine covers. With every appearance, they shifted the conversation. They proved you could be ethereal, edgy, elegant, futuristic, divine—all with the same hair they were once told to lose. It was more than a personal choice. It was a public correction. A statement that said: There is no one way to be beautiful, and our way is no less worthy.

On the American documentary television series–The Hair Tales, Chlöe Bailey spoke with Tracee Ellis Ross, an actress, cultural icon, and the founder of PATTERN Beauty, a popular haircare line designed exclusively for curly and coily hair. Ross, who is no stranger to the quiet battles waged over natural Black hair in Hollywood, made room for something more than just an interview. What followed was a genuinely moving interaction that felt less like a Q&A session and more like a generational transmission of truth, knowledge, and shared experience. Chloe opened up about the early days, how many questioned if locs could be versatile, doubted that she and Halle could be fashion-forward or commercial with them. There was always a lingering suggestion: If you want to be taken seriously, you might have to look different. And for a while, they tried. Chloe recalled how she and Halle wore lace front wigs—testing out a version of themselves that fit the industry’s mold more neatly. But it never felt right. The wigs looked good, but they didn’t feel like truth. They felt like a quiet betrayal of the girls they were, and the women they were becoming.

In that interview, Chloe revealed what they had been through with disarming candour: "It's all I've known, so I didn't really think there was anything different [about my locs], and I just knew that I loved to perform, I loved theatre, I loved acting and singing," she told Ross. "Our agents would get a lot of feedback like, 'Oh, they'd book the part if their hair was different.' Like, 'They're fantastic, but their hair—we can't book them because of their locs.'" (Oprah Daily, 2022).   It was a moment that punctured the polished veneer of showbix and exposed the coded gatekeeping that still exists.

The beauty of what Chloe and Halle have done is that they didn’t just keep their locs—they styled them. They elevated them. They sculpted them into art. They turned what others dismissed as “limiting” into something limitless. We’ve seen them wear them long and cascading, piled into celestial buns, adorned with beads and gold cuffs, dyed in ethereal hues. In every performance, they used their hair like punctuation—bold, expressive, unmistakable. Their locs became a language, and the world learned how to read it. Slowly at first. Then all at once. Suddenly, fashion houses wanted them. Luxury brands wanted them. Disney wanted them. And still, the locs stayed.

Halle's casting as Ariel caused quite a stir. People who had spent decades enforcing beauty standards didn't know what to do with a Black mermaid, let alone one with locs. They wanted the fantasy, but only on their terms. And yet, there she was, underwater and unconcerned, her locs floating like seaweed in a world that used to believe girls like her didn't exist in fairy tales. But maybe that’s what Chloe and Halle’s journey has always been—a real-life fairy tale that rewrites the rules, not to seek permission, but to make room. For every little girl who’s ever looked in the mirror and wondered if she could be enough as she is, these sisters gave an answer written in courage.

And it didn’t stop there. Their influence spilled over into the culture like honey. Other young artists began showing up in their natural hair with less hesitation. Brands began shifting their visuals. Editors started calling locs regal, bold, powerful. But none of this was accidental. It was the fruit of intentional defiance, of soft rebellion. Chloe and Halle never shouted. They didn’t need to. Their presence was a sermon, their hair a banner. They stood where others had once folded and said, “This is what freedom looks like.” And the world began to believe them.

Sometimes the revolution isn't so loud. Sometimes it appears like two girls singing in perfect harmony, heads raised high, locs shining under stage lights. Sometimes it looks like showing up to the biggest night of your life and choosing not to hide the parts of yourself they said you had to erase. That's what gives their story power. Not just the talent, which is apparent. Not just the beauty, which is breathtaking. But the choice: the choice to stay whole in a system designed to chip away at you. And in that wholeness, to transform everything.

What Chloe and Halle have taught us is that there’s no success worth having if it costs you your truth. That authenticity is the real flex. That you can bloom without breaking yourself into pieces first. And perhaps most importantly, that your roots—your literal and metaphorical roots—are not a burden. They are the beginning. So if someone tells you to be more palatable, more mainstream, more whatever-they-think-will-sell, remember these girls. Remember how they stayed. Remember how they rose. And remember how they took the world, locs and all.