I have always struggled with my hair. It's complex with every strand. Far more difficult than the average Becky with the good hair.

Ever since the sixth grade when I decided to rid of the slick back ponytail lifestyle and let my hair down, someone never failed to touch my hair without my permission. They loved to run their fingers through coils locked with Luster's Pink Oil Moisturizer ruining the pattern that took cracked palms to scrunch and then proceed to ask, "What are you?"

My answer in frustration would be, "well, my mom is Malaysian, and my dad is African American." That was to justify this exoticness people would find in me.

My bone structure of high cheekbones cooled with the caramel of my skin and the bushy-ness of my brows to the fullness of my lips and the slender outline of my eyes to the waves like oceans on my scalp. It all raised question.

"What are you?"

So, in their curiosity, they would touch.

To find that each strand is soft in its spiral of emotions, the smell of Cantu and coconut oil.

I am grown up and in college now.

The same breath of question is the same breath of judgment I receive from close family members that tell me that I need to fix my hair.

To tame the wild beast that lets loose in the daytime.

To cool down the fire from this friction of voluminous ends.

They tell me to straighten.

But that doesn't help with the questions of,

"What are you?" and the touch.

It increases in compliments though.

Like, I look better with my hair straight.

Or that I look like a completely different person.

To straighten makes me look more like my mom.

A woman of strength.

I still struggle with my hair. It's still complex with every strand. And it's still far more difficult than the average Becky with the good hair.

But, my hair is not a petting zoo for your entertainment.

It's not exotic filled with your microaggressions.

And there's nothing that I need to fix.

To be complex is to be powerful and mellow at the same time.

To be complex is to be... me.