Has been entangled in confusion,
Misunderstood in many places as being unprofessional.
No matter how neatly I put it together,
it would never be apart of the dress code.
It's not long enough,
not straight enough and it seems to be thought of as unruly as my skin,
Don't misunderstand me I am not a mad black woman,
just a misunderstood one.
My hair has gone through so many changes,
from chemical processes to bleaches and dyes.
My hair has struggled like my worn dark skin.
The world is changing but my hair will not conform.
I became tired of poisoning my body,
so that I could fit into a society that wants to change and alter my perceptions.
Making me hate my hair, wanting to change it, destroy it.
My hair was never meant to be straight and lighter,
my hair was never meant to be hidden underneath to cover who I really am.
I stand here looking at myself in the mirror wondering
how I could let myself get so programmed.
And I grabbed those scissor to free myself of this physical jail cell
that I voluntarily placed myself.
As I cut each strand, I begin to feel a rush of emotions.
Tears filled my eyes because I was afraid to see what was covered.
My hair was straight, silky and draped right to the middle of my back.
When I was done, I had nothing but a half an inch, of thick, dark, black, coils.
I felt naked but, free at the same time.
My hair emerged it's own unique personality,
It's like a crown that I finesse, my wild nappy tress.
Watch it yield to my image, expanding confidence and the end of my finish.
The embodiment of my daily struggles,
The world could never understand,each nappy strand.
And I become reminiscent of all the changes of my filaments,
and all of the antiquities that it has.
My follicles are now lifted and my locks intertwine and wind to be gifted to me.
They grow freely and untamed, uncontrolled like my spirit.
I love my hair, because now I'm in love with me!
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