Luckily she eventually did and we sprung right back into our peanut butter and jam-like relationship.

Wherever she went, I’d follow. Namely to the row of Black hair shops in Dalston, also known as the retail panacea for afro hair. I grew up in those aisles and we started by loading up our baskets with at-home relaxers that she was always nervous about applying for me. I’ve always had a shrug emoji approach to my hair and while she had zero hairdressing qualifications, I trusted her implicitly.

Once the sulphuric smell of relaxer had sufficiently lost its allure, I moved on to weaves, wigs and hair extensions. Our bus journeys to the salon were the equivalent of sitting in a therapist’s chair. She always gave me the space to untangle my thoughts about everything, from my strained relationship with my dad to worries over exam results.

We’d spend up to eight hours in the salon together, sat under the dryer with cling film wrapped around our hair and cotton wool stuffed in our ears to protect us from the heat. The years were going by but it still felt like we were making up time for those three months that we lost. When a patch of my hair decided to escape by way of stress-related alopecia, she diligently massaged oils into my hair as we watched re-runs of Sex and The City. Through our conversations, she gave me the toolkit for balancing resilience with softness as job after job became a disappointment. My hair grew back pretty quickly and I’m not sure if it was the carefully curated blend of essential oils that did the trick but I’d place a bet on it being Lystra’s love.

“Why my mum is the only constant in my ever-changing afro hair journey”