By : Me
A woman’s hair
Is supposed to be her crowning glory
But our hair is our cloak of shame.
A wooly, kinky, coily masterpiece
That if treated right
Can be shaped and sculpted into a ball of beauty.
But they won’t let us have that
They feed us images of straight
Chemical, weaved up, sewn up, permed up
That is beauty.
Stringy, blonde, one trick pony
That can’t be touched.
They feed us an ideal.
An ideal beauty
That is a direct contradiction
Of our own natural grandeur.
Our natural, kinky mane
That is more diverse and gorgeous than it’s “allowed” to be
Bed head, messy, side pony
Twisted, afro, French braids, fresh press
They wish they had our ball of mess.
When they look at my naps with a side eye
Because I know that my kitchen can create
More beautiful styles than their string.
So as I maneuver in a chemical based
Weaved up, keep up with YT world
Cause while they’re marching in line
Conforming and losing themselves
I’m nurturing my wholeness
And loving me.