I just came back from a trip from the hair stylist and I can truly say—I love being a woman. And not just a woman, but a black woman. There’s something special for me about going to get my hair done that reminds me of all things beautiful about my people. There’s the airbrushed pictures of Jay-Z and Usher, with the glitter bling—bling that stands out. And there’s something about the little black boys who come in with the grandfathers or with their mothers, sometimes wide-eyed and sometimes kicking and screaming. There’s something about the little black girls coming to get a neat press and curl for Sunday. And there’s something about the knee-slapping, hand-clapping, toe-tapping, mouth-cackling that goes on with the brothers and the sisters having a good time.
Today I’m proud to say I got some corn-rows. What a wonderful celebration of the little black girl in me, of the proud black woman in me who loves to show diversity. There’s nothing like the feel of my hair being pulled so hard until my eyes squint more than they are. There’s nothing like the jerk of the comb through my kinky freedom after my press and curl has been washed out. There’s nothing like the smell of burnt hair when it’s all being blown out. And there’s nothing like sitting back and looking in the mirror at the Queen before me.
Thank you, God, for making me a Black Woman. Just the way I am.