My room mate thinks my hair is untidy, not that I care. I think my hair is the most beautiful thing when my braids are out. It's kinky, curly and tough but I don't mind because it has that lonesome power of announcing my presence when I walk into a room or when I walk out. I could do with that power anytime, who wouldn't?
You'ld be amazed the number of people who would compliment my hair. They would swoon in wonder and fawn over me, how amazing this hair is, I tell her. I've become an interesting creature for simple natural things like my hair and accent. I could live this little fame for a while before I shave my hair off.. don't be alarmed. I won't look ugly, just different. Is that not what they say, that what makes you different, makes you beautiful? And that is how I know my classmates are all beautiful, because there are well, many accents. That's my class, we all speak English but we sound different. And that uniqueness of hair and tongue and skin color defines our beauty. Or not.
She persists that I should use the iron straighteners. Not today. I used to be called tigress of the wild, because I was always willing to dare. I remember those years of trial and victory. Now I calculate the risks. Now my hair deserves to dance in the spring, without traps. Now, yesterday seems too far.
With a mischievous wink, I get ready to walk down the streets of America, with my hair standing at attention. And that is what I do this saturday evening, walk down the clear streets of texas, listening to chirping birds, laughing with the winds. Alone and unarmed I walk, proud Afrikaan woman, feeling homesick and feeling lost. Alone and unarmed I walk, proud Afrikaan woman, feeling Lupita and feeling fly. Sometimes, hair should be worn like this; naked, free. Swaying in the winds, swaying to frenzied beats, swaying the way it wants. And spring should be like this; free, serene.
