All my life, people have made a big deal about my hair, but in almost every situation, the hair they gushed over was not my “real hair.” I have never, ever “woke up like dis.” My hair—while strong, long and my dominant feature—is a carefully crafted myth that can easily be shattered by stuff like “the wind,” “water” or “the scarf fell off while I was asleep.”

All hair manipulation—whether it’s your hair or someone else’s—renders it otherworldly. I created my hair mythology because it was expected of me. It is expected of every black woman, and it is a pain in the ass. Going natural does not spare you of it, since your curly hair is compared with that of biracial women or women wearing realistic-looking Afro wigs. Loose, bouncy curls? Good. My frizzy, “Good Lord, what are you mixed with? An Arabian horse and a Brillo pad” hair? Bad.