Complex Affair;

That really nice boy likes my hair. Or at least finds it somewhat intriguing. I know this because he says so — “I like your hair. I like your braids.” — over and over again. I catch him staring at it, sometimes subtly, and sometimes not so subtly.

Thousands of boys like thousands of girls’ hair and stare at said girls’ hair. Why, then, do I ponder over something that seems so commonplace?

I am black, you see, and a black woman’s hair is a complex affair. The strands of my hair do not clump together to form soft waves and/or straightness. My hair is not simply curly. It’s a complicated curly. Infact, it is not curly at all…Each strand, if left unfettered, has a mind of its own; twisting and wriggling and kinking and bending its way; upwards and outwards; away from my scalp; forming a halo, an afro, growing on and on; surreally, in a way that goes beyond what can be described as straight or wavy or curly.

My hair is kinky. Combs are sometimes useless. Heat from a blowdryer sometimes unkinks the kinks; but you have to do it right, or else it fries your ends and breaks them off. Winter winds are devastating. My afro loves the sun instead. But there is no sun here.