The way I choose to wear my hair is clear
when those who de-stressed their hair
say to me: "girl, relax that."
You'll know that I'm African by birth and lifestyle
when my hairstyle is free to scream, "I'm an African."
Strong is she, coarse is she, thick is she.
No matter her width and texture,
she's like the fibrous tresses of the lion of Judah.
How dare they call my hair ugly
when I really think it's fabulous
and that's conspicuous to those who wear her the way I do:
natural, course, black, beautiful, proud and undisturbed.
To fit into a circle she does not want to.
A circle of de-stressed hair, pressed hair,
blonde hair, straighter hair that's more wear and tear.
My hair is my beauty; my lover on a Sunday morning;
Tresses of strength, redeemer of my innocence;
narrator of who I am - an African.
My hair is my ethnic I.D. card that declares my African heritage.
My hair is my passport to true identity and a solemn reflection of Africa.
My hair knows it's clear that those who fear to wear their African hair
are ashamed and afraid of being Africans.
They are perplexed about their true African heritage.
They are willing to sacrifice self for a false image.
They mutate and mutilate their hair
because of fear that the world will jeer
when they wear their African hair.
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