I am my hair. I am my hair. I am my hair. Coil, twist, braid, lock.
Excuse me for my eloquence, this is the crux of our heritage, our essence, forget not the pain of being looked upon as a peasant, treated like a pestilence. Taken from our homes, brought to a foreign land. Given a foreign name. Used as a pawn in a foreign game. For centuries.
I am my hair. I am my hair. I am my hair. Coil, twist, braid, lock.
Now I know who I am. I know what I am worth. I’m okay with the kinks in my hair I’ve had since birth. I’m good in my skin. No matter what shade it’s in. And my lips and my nose are perfect as well. No matter how thin or how big.
I no longer feel self-loathing. I know my own value. Let no man take that from me. That I cannot allow you.
I am my hair and my hair is me. Its beauty in every type of grade you see. It’s part of my oxygen. It sets me free. It’s the difference; individuality.
Why not accept it? Why try to oppress it? How is it really bothering you?
I think not! I know not. Just more useless motions to go through. I am my hair. I love my hair. I grow with my hair. Dare to take that from me? My dignity. My confidence. I gue4ss that’s to be taken too. If you’d rather leave me shorn in shame as a shell of myself, then shame on you.
I am my hair. I am my hair. I am my hair. Coil, twist, braid, lock