4cMe
From entanglements to detangled rhythms, I allow myself to be free in the comfort of this room. Permitting foreign objects to invade the four corners of my mind, as I let soapy lather cascade down the sides of my mahogany edges. I sink deeper into the realms of relaxation - releasing the microagressions that cling to me - washing away the stale stereotypes about my hair that shines so brightly in the sun.
I listen to the pitter-patter of water as it ricochets off my shoulders onto the tiled walls. The marbles coldness a constant reminder of the world I have left at the front door before entering into this steamy space of revival. I close my eyes and drift away whilst my hands dance seductively over my scalp whilst exploring new pathways and hunting for acceptance from those who fail to understand each strands complexities.
The sensual touch of the symmetrical ridges ignite indescribable stimulation. Oils running down my skin; gliding gracefully through my thickness, my black cloud of wonderment, my eternal crown passed down to me through my ancestral line. Each individual strand coated with a warmth, a desire of something new. Fingers tips gently massaging the moistness of scented lotions and potions into areas that may not get to see the light of day, due to my needs to protect them the elements and harsh words.
Braids, fros, locs, twists all independently standing to attention, armored in self-love - a constant visual liberation of a wonderful Black nation of womanhood - where we dance to the smooth sounds of empowering tones of self-acceptance that is shaded in earthy hues of defiance which anchors our collective beauty.
Whilst my nurturing hands create movements of pleasure, moments of divinity effortlessly. The shea sense of peace comforts me. To be in this transition of identity. The detaching from the discourses of “can I touch your hair?”, “is it real?”, “how do you get it to do that?” is like removing a weave worn for too long; a build up of frustration. Relishing each moment of this process as though taking clippers to my ebony shafts to remove the breakages from my acts of assimilation.
It is time for self. A period of rebirth.
I rise up out of margins found between the lanes of my cornrows.
I place my big toothed comb on the dresser and leave in pursuit of a new day. Letting the outside world see my natural kinky, coiled, coarse hair for what it is, an extension of me, not the definition of me.
It is in this new declaration of Self, Sisterhood and Standards that I command that They 4c Me.
Written by Nadine Robinson