Our hair has always been more than beauty. It’s memory, rebellion, and survival braided together , an inheritance born of both pain and pride. When people ask, “Why don’t Black women like their hair being touched?” they’re really asking us to relive what it meant to have our bodies owned, examined, and stripped of privacy.
During slavery, our ancestors were displayed, prodded, and measured like property. Touch became control. Hands that reached for our hair weren’t gentle, they were claiming. So generations later, when fingers still reach without permission, our spirits remember that theft.
Our hair is a crown we rebuild every morning in defiance of that history. It is church Sunday, kitchen presses, hot comb sizzles, and the laughter of little girls spinning in barrettes. It’s science and soul. It’s art born under pressure.
Touching it without consent isn’t curiosity, it’s a continuation. It says, “You are still a specimen to me.” But when we say, “Don’t touch my hair,” what we mean is, see me as human first. Ask. Respect. Recognize the centuries it took to love these curls again after they were called unclean.
Our hair remembers what this country tries to forget. And through it, we teach the world: sacred things must be handled with permission, reverence, and love.
— ✍🏽 Sister Leah Muhammad
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