How dare you tell me that my hair isn’t ‘professional.’.
My kinks and curls, the beauty that grows from my head is the natural crown that my God gave me. You cannot impose upon me your euro-centric ideal of rod straight and stock still. The hairs that twist and wind themselves from the root speak of my twisted winding roots. They tell the story of my people that is far from rod straight and stock still. The long braids I choose to flip over my shoulder are not those of the disobedient rebel.
Instead they revel in my black heritage.
Buffalo soldier, dreadlock rasta. Not dirty, spiritual.
I take offence in the belief that black hair is messy, ‘nappy’. If you try to tell me that the style of my hair somehow affects the efficacy of my brain, I’ll tell you that you need to go back to school. Hairs…
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