When you see my hair, big and curly, kinks and twist, braids down my back, dreads that would make Miley jealous because they are naturally so amazing, does it scream, “TOUCH ME”? Or is it the scent of the coconut oil that surrounds my scalp and the olive oil that lays massaged into my edges that brings your hand to the top of my head? No. It must be how my hair is defying gravity and you just don't understand. My hair said, "Forget your standards of beauty," and grew into its own direction, and you feel you must touch it as if your hand will “bless” me and cause my hair to be silky and straight. No, no. It must be because my hair grew so fast, it went from a bob to down my back in a week. “How did you do that?” you ask as your hand dives into my scalp searching for the magic known as tracks. No, no, no. I think it is because you wish your hair looked like that you will remark as you pull on my curls, curious as to how they bounce back, not knowing you are destroying their look. Or maybe you are just eager to know how black hair feels?

I can tell you now that I, (insert name of black girl), do not want to be your test sample.

Now, I am not trying to hurt any feelings. There are likely many of you who think touching hair is a love thing, but unless you ask, please do not touch my hair. I only say ask so I can tell you no, kindly, instead of giving you dagger eyes after you touch my hair without permission. It makes me, (insert name of black girl), uncomfortable when a random hand decides my head is its landing ground or decides my curls look grab-a-fistful worthy. I am not excited to feel anyone’s hand attempting to comb through my fro or searching my scalp to see how my braids or dreadlocks work. If you do not know, then it is not for you. I would like to inform you that it is not my job to tell you how my hair functions, because for the most part, like Yoncé said, “I woke up like this.” I, (insert name of black girl), woke up and took out my two-strand twist; woke up and walked out with my bantu knots; woke up after sitting nine hours to get this hair installed; woke up and washed my hair; woke up and have had this protective style in for like a week now. I, (insert name of black girl), “woke up like this, flawless,” but the more your greasy hand touches my hair, flaws will be added.

Please do not grab my hair without permission. If given permission, do not tug. Do not pull. Do not take fistfuls of my hair. Do not curl my hair around your ugly finger. Please, be kind to my hair. Please realize I am learning to love my hair and I do not need you questioning it or being harsh in nature to it. My hair is not on top of my head to be an experience for you. It is here for me to care and love, so I would prefer to not have you rummage your fingers through my "do." My curls look nothing like yours, so please do not compare them. The humidity does not give you “Afro hair,” so please do not let those words come out of your mouth. And if you honestly respect my existence, me (insert name of black girl), do not get box braids, do not get dreads, do not bantu knot your hair, and do not appropriate my culture. It was not designed for you. And chances are, you will look foolish (just look at the photos of Miley Cyrus from the 2015 VMAs). Like, really, hun, you will look a mess.

I, (insert name of black girl), want you, (people who are not black) to know these things about my hair when you approach me. This has been a public service announcement from a black girl.