In my English class, my teacher was free to decide what he wanted to gear the material towards, and he chose African American literature. I was immediately excited to hear this; I took an African American Studies class last semester and it was probably one of the most interesting courses I’ve ever taken.

I dove into the material, seeing reflections of myself and my black identity in each text and video. His discussions made sense to me, just as African American Studies had; it felt like all my suspicions and inane feelings about society’s view on Black people were being confirmed.

Our most recent discussion in English was about Chris Rock’s documentary “Good Hair”. The documentary went through the various different ways Black women tamed their hair in order to make White people feel more comfortable. Being raised with twist outs and natural, curly puffs, much of the information was new to me; relaxers seemed harsh and dangerous, and weaves were worth more money than I could even imagine.

My classmates, being White, shared similar sentiments. But the root theme of the documentary hit home for me; the idea that Black women are made to be uncomfortable in their own hair in order to fit into White people’s image of perfection.

I continue to feel every day, regardless of endless compliments, insecure about my hair and whether it looks good. Yes, this is a normal trial a woman goes through, but as a Black woman, your hair is more than just a look. It is your identity, your culture, your defining feature.

It does not listen to you. It is stubborn to pull back into a pony tail, and no other Black woman’s hair is similar to your own. It can do anything you want it to while at the same doing nothing you want it to. It surprises you with its ability, beauty, and texture, but at the same time society continuously forces it down your throat that it is not real beauty.

Society tells you your hair is too loud, too big, and too crazy. It tells you to relax, make it straight, make it something they can understand. It tells you there is no way you’re getting this job if you come in this office looking like that.

In an interesting dichotomy, society tells you that while it not acceptable, its exotic.

“Can I touch your hair?”

“How does it look like that?”

They revoke your permission to protect your body by reaching out as if you an animal in a cage. They touch your head as if it does not belong to you, as if your body is the property of White America. It’s meant to be a compliment of your beauty, but as long as there are good intentions, it’s okay, right?

My hair is my personality. Its giant, uncontrollable, and crazy. It blows in the wind like it has no sense. Its happy to be free and large on my head. It is a permanent part of me that will never go away even if it physically does.

In the end I almost felt like I was leading the discussion because I felt so passionately about the subject. To think people see your natural hair as a threat is a bizarre yet inane notion to think about. While Black culture is again becoming trendy, it makes me wonder how much America really appreciates it. Is it just another effort to control Black people by feigning love for their culture? Will they truly understand what hair means to a Black woman?