Ask. Think. Marvel.

When my girlfriends and I get together there is usually a "hairstory" among us. Sometimes we laugh sometimes we cry. I recently had the unfortunate experience of hearing about something so dreadfully soul stealing regarding a young black woman and the thoughtless words she endured over her hair. And at 3am this is what poured from my heart. So I dedicate this poem to every black woman who has a hairstory.

Ask. Think. Marvel.

When you touch a black woman's hair you touch her soul.
It is a privilege and intimacy that for now only my hairdresser has,
and only three times a year.
Ask.

When you touch a black woman's hair you are touching her strength
and her vulnerability.
Her strength which lifts her head and presses her chin to the sun,
her crown gleeming therein, and yet the vulnerability that can also
be used to hold her back when thoughtless words hurt and aim to destroy.
Think.

When you touch a black woman's hair you are touching her legacy-
the faces of the men and women which tell the story of her blood
and every curl, kink, or nap in her heritage.
Marvel.

When you touch a black woman's hair, whether with words, your hands, or your stares,
you are touching her soul.
Ask.
Think.
Marvel.