My hair has taken me on a journey through self-love, self-hatred and self-awareness.
My bathroom has been both a sanctuary and purgatory as I picked, prodded, primped and shouted to the mirror at myself.
Both praises and curses flew from my lips in the direction towards the kinky, curly, dry and complicated strands that grew from my head.
I am my mother. I am my father. I am my ancestors. I am the little girl that desired both long, silky straight hair and an afro as large as Angela Davis’.
My hair is both conflict and peace. Both paradox and truth.
In it I find both solace and confusion.
It’s become part of my maturation.
Part of my self-discovery.
Part of my pain and part of my pleasure.
What is this blessing that God seemed to have hidden within a curse I was too blind-sighted to see?
My hair is a reflection of me.