Imagine, hair. The elusive, coveted “good” hair. On some days and for some people, that is my hair. Or was. Or can be. But you should know by now –
Don’t. Touch. My. Hair.
For, I am my hair. My hair is a collection of memories twisted together with thread bundled in intricate knot and layers of life’s undulations.
In all its glory, my hair is reflective of my identity. Natural, braided, beaded, wrapped or straight there is mystery hidden in my hair. My kinks and twists hold secrets, and pain and joy; that is mine to reveal. An extension of my body and my SELF, on my dime and in the style that I choose.
My hair is my crown, a melody in the wind, my hair, Is…
All the embellishments sewn and knotted onto my hair have independent integrity. Their meaning amplified into my shine and ‘joyful noise’ when I turn my head.
My hair is not immune to the weather, a flimsy umbrella, not even a shower cap. I have to tackle frizz, knots, wear a silk cap, twist, pin and part, dye and trim the dead ends. My neck and aching lower back can attest.
My hair holds memories of being sent to the person who could ‘do my hair’. To tame it, quiet it down. Not unlike, the me in the world that held her tongue and had her hair hot combed until it did not offend so I could be “heard” in business meetings. All to “fit in” and make you feel comfortable.
I was punished when the mean girls in grade school put gum in my hair! So unfair, I’m still traumatized. What is YOUR reasoning for touching? Fascinated? Ask. When you touch my hair without permission it seems you ask – how are we different? My question to you – how are we the same? Here, I have created a bridge on which to meet you.