I am my hair

I am my hair.

I am a rebel.

I refuse to lay flat in perfect formation.

I am an individual.

I am not as tall as her.

I may not be as thick or strong as she.

But I am still a part of a beautiful doo.

I am magic.

I can change my form like I change my clothes.

Somedays I am curly.

I draw into myself, hiding my face from you.

I am ashamed of my faults.

Today I am bone straight.

My head is held high.

I am proud of myself and my roots are proud of me.

I do not forget them for they hold me in the place that I stand now.

And I dare you to try and gel me down.

Do not do it.

I can stand on my own, need no help from some slick talking Motions or a deep, rich African Pride.

Tomorrow I will be wavy.

My systematic curves entice you.

Give in.

Come run your fingers on top of my seductive shaft.

My body hits high and low notes from the temple to the nape of the neck.

But watch it!

Do not to try to mold me into a ghastly bob or tacky bang.

For I do what I want.

Do not try to straighten me out.

I will snap right back at you.

Do not try to cut me because

I will come back stronger and faster than before.

Do not try to hide me in a wig or stifle me with weaves.

I will be heard.

Though my ends may split,

I hold tight.

Though my ends may break,

My spirit will not.

Though you dye me,

My color still lies within and will not die.

I am my hair.

I am a rebel.

I refuse to lay flat in perfect formation.

I am an individual.

I am…