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And so are the shambles that make me weak, The brambles and tangles when soft I do seek. They yank and they pull and I'm filled with dread "Mother dear," I beg, "You are hurting my head."
Kinky they say, Too curly to be cared about. But the coil is my culture; Constantly defined unattractive, Under-appreciated efforts, Tragically tainted tries.
Dear Ms. Arie I am my hair I am my skin I am also the soul that lives within Times have changed Ms. Arie I can walk around the office with wild hair and still be "irie" Dark skin is just my color
Growing up, my grandmother’s house was a second home to me. Greeted by the smell of lavender and sweet peas, she provided a safe haven
Look deeply into my roots and see that my curls are unruly. My curls define me Curled to perfection Every kink and coil Each designed to fit me Tell a story of my well-being My hair is my destiny
It makes me sad when people make fun of black girl’s curlsBecause that’s all I ever wanted.My hair is curly too, but not curly enough to be coolor flat enough to be normal or white people hair.
Culture dictates hair be smooth sleek and straight, Professional hair is not out of place. It is hard to love your hair when it goes
I thank God for who I am. The color of my skin, to the curls on top of my head. I may not have straight hair or the perfect skin. But I am me. A person who is kind, caring, and a gentle soul.
This is my hair It flows free and true Can you feel my tresses? They speak the truth, do you? This is my pride, black & true. Flowing ever freely, do you? This is my hair haiku.
Soft as cotton, Black as charcoal Intertwining curls making rough tweaking music The sound of dry bristles Yet fluffy to the eye Having a mind of its own Uncooperative, stubborn, and hard headed