Your Hair

Your hair arrives before you do—

a soft announcement,

a small weather system

moving through the room.

It doesn’t shout.

It doesn’t beg.

It simply is—

And somehow that’s louder than most things.

Some days it falls like calm,

a quiet river down your back,

holding the light the way secrets do—

not to hide,

but to keep.

Some days it’s fire,

a little wild at the edges,

refusing to behave

for anyone who thinks you should.

And when you touch it

it’s not vanity, not a habit—

It’s a check-in with yourself:

I’m here.

I’m still here.

I’ve seen hair like yours

turn heads without trying,

not because it’s perfect,

but because it carries a kind of certainty—

the kind that makes people look twice

and wonder what you know.

It frames your face

like punctuation:

a period when you’re done explaining,

a comma when you’re still becoming,

an exclamation

n you finally choose yourself.

Your hair is not just hair.

It’s proof.

Proof you’ve survived mornings

that tried to shrink you,

proof you’ve grown through seasons

that didn’t ask permission.

And if someone thinks it’s “too much,”

let them.

Your hair has never been “too much.”

It’s been the part of you

that refuses to disappear.