Nappy roots and straight ends
Transitioning between dark brown strands
And sun set blonde highlights
Natural coils, hidden behind processed hair
I am Not my hair
But this is Not my hair either

It was common in my teen years to walk down the street
Hair down my back
Neighborhood girls double take and ask...Is that your REAL hair?
Like a fool, I would always respond, Yes
Never acknowledging all the treatments I got from,
Hot combs, Blow Dryers, and Flat Irons

Crackling hair, fried nicely
Or the results of a few scalp burns from my perm
Just like our periods, we always knew that time of the month
That time when you walk into a Black or even Dominican hair salon
And everyone is sitting with their heads covered in white

I look back and envy those moments
All for some slick edges and a smooth 'kitchen'
Now with four months of new growth, piled on my head
This is still not my REAL hair
These are not the waves my mother used to struggle so long to straighten
Forcing a hot comb to press out the curse of my curly locks

This hair of mine, is not my own
If it was, I wouldn't stare in the mirror
With confusion as to how to wear my own crown
And the worst part
I don't even feel comfortable touching my own tresses
Instead I see them as stresses

So with easy convenience, I hand my money over to a complete stranger
Relapsing on this formula known as, Creamy Crack
But this time, I fight a battle to regain my natural hair, yet still feel beautiful

Double consciousness eats at me though
To be black, be curly haired, be comfortable with my features
No matter how Africanized they appear
But also walk out my door, into a world that shows straight hair, long hair,
Hair that I can purchase if I wish, but will never be mine
The "ideal" in beauty

I'll always wonder if my hair really captures the true essence of me
If you are really looking at me
Or just comparing my hair with a popular standard