Don't Touch My Hair (A Solange reboot by a significantly less talented singer)
I recently got a wig, and boy am I flossing . I am strutting around town like I declined an OBE. Right now, I feel like the world is my cat walk and honey, I ain't about to sashay away anytime soon. But when I take it off and I'm left with my cornrows, I feel less beautiful. Somehow, less fierce. Never mind that I can't pull of cornrows. But mind that I my self-esteem goes through the roof whenever I have extensions on - essentially whenever my hair is not in it's quintessential afro. And boy does this realisation hit you like a ton of bricks. How deeply internalised 'Black is not beautiful' is. How when I need to go to interviews, I can spend an hour on my hair ensuring its presentability. Willing the curls to be looser, or that they once, stop defying gravity with their propensity to stick up and out of place. Wishing that I had taken the effort to actually do my hair. Praying that no-one will notice. Taking the time to beat my face to perfection to som...