It’s been a journey to forgive my hair for the way it chooses to grow.
Two decades of thinking it's scruffy and wrong is a lot of damage to undo.
I thought that straight was normal, and that’s what I wanted to be.
I’d never seen any women holding power in their hair like me.


Summer, I was thirteen, shorts obviously,
big man, small van, thinks he’s being witty
shouted "get a haircut then I’ll shag you".

I stood stock still. Shocked and floundered.
My hair wasn’t up to HIS standards?
I’m so wrong I can’t be catcalled right.

Authority figures control their curls: I never saw a teacher, doctor, lawyer
who visibly sported her natural do, the shame would simply destroy her.
Black women wear a White woman’s hair, to get onto TV you need straighteners.
Stamp out any hint of ‘ethnic’ to keep your employer.

I learned how to chameleon,
to talk white, sit quiet, look right but my hair can’t hide it holds my power.

Aged 21, just off cut my dreads, a professor approved he loudly said
I looked more "sensible, presentable, orchestral, professional."
I just nod. I’d tamed that mane, for who? And you, a student too, stood silently beside me.
Apologised afterwards, awkwardly.

Last year whilst in my all white workroom, now I’m fully grown,
eyes turn on me, as gleefully Boss calls across the room
no one smiles but no one speaks, the hushed hall rings my ears for weeks,
"You've got that toilet brush back on your head?"

Not colleagues but mates, I love this squad
no one meets my eyes so I just nod,
heat streaks, my cheeks my temple throbs
but I stay quiet - I need this job.

I learned how to chameleon,
to talk white, sit quiet, look right but my hair can’t hide it holds my power.

Don’t touch my hair, do not touch my hair, get your hands out of my hair.
Is it bouncy? Feels like wool? You’re having such fun? I assure you I don’t care .
Greasy fingers grasp like twigs replicating what our ancestors did
let me bow my head while you take what you want from my body.

It’s easy to spot with mixed kids who was raised under a black mamma.
My mother’s white fingers, couldn’t really grasp how to give my head a makeover.
How to curl and style and twist and comb this little girl’s hair so different from her own.
For all that love in her heart, there was no one to show her.

And she never ever ever ever let me feel that the way I looked was lesser,
but somehow out there in your domain I internalised that message.
A thousand reminders that I’m not the same wormed their way inside of my brain
till I wished I was bald. The weight of my fro felt oppressive.

I learned how to chameleon,
to talk white, sit quiet, look right but my hair can’t hide it holds my power.

Just trying to like myself means battling our world’s perception
I’ve lived in the lens of warped Whiteness where I’m just a broken reflection.
You taught me self hatred, not different, just worse, my beautiful locks cannot be a curse.
I’m not a bad copy of you. I’m my own perfection.

With every hair care discovery
I’m honouring the women who came before me.
Spray bottle, edging gel, a wide toothed comb,
it’s not just style, I’ve found my home.
I’ve got study practicalities
4c? 4b? Which one is me?
When do I comb? Am I supposed to brush?
It seems a sleep scarf is a must.
By separating out braids from twists,
I’m filling in gaps of knowledge I’ve missed.
It’s an ancient army I’m ready to enlist
I’m about to own my own heritage.

I won’t be your chameleon,
can’t talk white, sit quiet, look right my hair can’t hide it holds my power.

Never your chameleon.
Won’t talk white, sit quiet, look right my hair can’t hide it holds my power.

I hold my power.