My locs are an external reminder of my growth as I journey to Ghana and beyond. Sometimes they stand tall, reaching for the sun. Other times they grasp towards the ground. Often, they stretch outwards in defiant jubilation.
I chose to loc my hair because I wanted it to harness its own aura without manipulating its texture. I decided to put the comb down and allow my coiled texture to love in solidarity.
The energy that emanates from my follicles guides my gut feelings and works with my third eye to protect me as I experience familiar and distant cultures. For centuries my hair’s mere existence has been questioned, pulled and burned at the stake by external entities.
They tried to convince me it wasn’t lit. They failed.
My hair defies gravity. The very thing that keeps us here on earth.
Everyday my hair looks different and everyday it teaches me something new. Through limited interference and freedom to blossom, we reject standards of beauty that seek to box in our magic and colonize our curl pattern.
We out here.
It’s very lit.