“I love your hair!”

My hair was expensive. It took time, effort and patience. I don’t like people touching it. It’s disrespectful and annoying. Period.

Over and over again people tug, pull, braid, and weave their fingers through my hair, pulling it towards them. They act shocked, as if they’d just seen a zoo animal. They brightly exclaim, “I love your hair!”

Why is it that people feel the need to touch my hair? It’s not abstract, it’s not crazy, and yes, I feel it when you yank it.

Weave twist twist. It’s a formula, a sequence, a rhythm. My hair is pulled, braided and tightened. Head sore, braids fresh, a new one begins. Weave twist twist. It seems so simple, yet there is a delicate skill to hair braiding.

My hair connects me to a piece of my culture. My mother has braids, my grandmother has braids, my cousins have braids. Respect for my hair means respect for heritage.

I have gotten my hair braided all my life. When I was in elementary school I wore cornrows. I thought it was magic. These braids were magically glued into my hair. As I got older, I tried it. I would sit with my barbies and try to work the magic, but I could never do it. As I got even older, I would watch in annoyance as my friends magically braided each other’s hair. They would tie it in ribbons and shake their head around, as if the braid was a tail.

Still, I couldn’t braid. I wasn’t dumber than everyone else; I just didn’t want to learn. I was envious of the girls who chose to wear braids. For me it was the only option.

People reach their grubby hands in my hair twisting it around their fingers and I just sit and let them. I sit and wonder how one of my friends would react if I took her French braid and started pulling and rubbing it with my fingers. I wonder how she would feel, being treated like an animal on display.

My hair means a lot to me. When I got my braids in the 7th grade I finally felt like I fit in. I had long flowy hair like everyone else. No one could yank at my afro or make fun of my cornrows. But yet again I was treated like an outsider.

I’ll be sitting in class and I’ll feel a slight pull, a slight tug, then a giggle. “Is it okay if I touch your hair? I forgot to ask!”

Can I say no?

Am I allowed to say no?

So I say yes and they tug and pull and braid. My hair doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s something to pull and play with. But it means something to me. It’s the little piece of my culture I carry around with me.

Meaning can be attached to anything, for anyone, from any cultural background.

So please, ask before you touch my hair.