Black Hair

Black Hair

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It’s straight Yaki, blue beads with the Marley braids.

Trendsettin’, go-gettin’, long bob and bangs.

Our crowning jewel, a crown on top of the crown,

You better believe I’m proud.

Tight curls or finger waves, outdated maybe, but I rock it

For days.

Head faded, never outdated. My pride and joy, symbolism of

My worth.

Mama taught me all about water and grease, how to smooth

My edges, to use a pressing comb and not curse.

Rocked the perm for a while, burnt scalp and all. That ain’t no joke!

Distractions during processing will take your hair completely off.

Young 20s and nailed that TWA. Felt like myself for the first time.

It changed me. Five years, all-natural.

No manipulating taking place. Only authenticity and a whole lot of grace.

Twist-outs, bantus, wash n’ go and the like. Creativity from roots to ends, I figured it out despite

The chaos, degradation and mindless banter regarding it. Negative vibes within my own culture,

Division. Damn, I barely got started.

Soon though, I’d be ok.

Dirty 30 and loc’d, 3 years next April. Happy Birthday!

Mine doesn’t define me, but it is essential for me to understand my identity, my brown skin. My make up.

Some say it’s just hair. Yeah, you’re right.

But the queen in me knows it is a part of the fight to be seen.

Be heard.

Be treated as equal.

To be respected. Simply acknowledged in your presence.

It’s my reminder of how far I’ve come.

One day, gray will shine through...or I might have no hair at all.

Bald and beautiful. I’ll remember each phase, each transformation.

And I’ll smile because in the end, I’m still a queen.

By Lacey Cherice Wilson

Noticing: An Instagram Story

First Fight

First Fight

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