I Am My Hair
Hair—elusive, coveted, scrutinized. Some days, it’s “good” hair. Other days, it’s not. But one thing remains constant:
Don’t. Touch. My. Hair.
My hair is a tapestry of memories, twisted with thread, knotted in intricate layers, shaped by life’s rhythms. It carries history—pain and joy, mystery and resilience. My kinks hold secrets, my curls speak truths. It is mine to reveal, mine to adorn, mine to shape on my terms.
Braided, natural, crocheted, or straight, my hair is a crown, a melody in motion. Every bead, thread, and ribbon woven into it amplifies my shine, my joyful noise. Yet, it is no shield—frizz, knots, and trims are part of its journey, as are the aching neck and sore back that come with caring for it.
I remember the trips to those who could “do my hair.” Tame it. Silence it. Just as I was taught to temper my voice, my hair was straightened into submission—so I could “fit in,” so I could be heard.
Yet still, you touch my hair without permission. Why? To see what makes us different? I ask—what makes us the same?
In I Am My Hair, I invite the community to wrap, knot, and weave thousands of yards of yarn, recycled sari thread, plastic cord, ribbon, sequins, and pom-poms into 100 feet of cotton rope. Thousands of participants have left their imprint, bonding over stories of gray strands, locs, wigs, and braids. Through our differences, we found our common ground—hair.
Please. Don’t. Touch. Our. Hair.
