Black Queen

I got dressed and stared into the mirror watching my hair. My fingers ran through the roots, I felt soft and bit oily. A straight-haired woman wishes for curl. A woman who got curls dreamed for straight locks. And my one I have no idea about her, to which group does she belong, even. Sometimes she's all curled, sometimes looks so wavy but not a stick-straight one. Yeah! I know she’s a significant part of my body.

I bought her ritually prepared herbal hair oils and fancy healthy shampoos to wash them off. She was happy; growing good and looked so classy. At some point, she started to refuse my gifts. She was dull, frizzy, dull, and getting her back to normal became a nightmare for me. I was embarrassed by her looking when compared with everyone else's.

I brushed her. Bought some good hair ties. Some suggested me to cut off four inches of my hair. I didn't want to do it, so, I cut off one inch. That was the most courage I could muster. I have been admiring long hair. I was honoring my decision and at the same time, part of me didn't feel quite safe for doing something that I'm not sure.

What if it's our fingers or ears or something else? Imperfection is also attractive, the point where I started my journey of acceptance. After everything, I did for her to get back to normal, I started spending more time with her before I'm going out. She felt happy and good, so do I! The hair did not change; my view did. I stood in front of my mirror repeating to myself that I look beautiful, until the day I truly felt it. Certainly, I have come a long way from being a baby with absolutely no hair on her head. But embracing my hair helped me accept and love who I am, and all. Finally, I learned to care for my (natural) hair.