Dear Chris Rock: a Word About Good Hair

I'm a black woman and I cry I'm a black woman and I cry You've been telling me all my life that everything was going to be alright. But I cried when I was a little girl when I had to cut my locks into Shirley Temple curls. And I cry now that I am a woman of the world. And I can see it still matters if I want to be an afro or a weave. Who should care if I want to be a blond? If, I want my hair to be short or long? No matter what I do I will always be black or to be more politically correct African American. I will always have to pray for my dark son for he can be shot because of a profile or by a thug no matter if his hair is nappy or greasy and waved up. And even if my lover be kind and white, People will say he isn't the one that should be happy but I. They will say the privilege to feel our love is totally mine, no matter if I had braids, or had straight hair below my behind. And if we have children, their pedigree will be determined by the black blood that flows through me. Even if their hair is yellow and curly. For that was one law that never changed After reconstruction or slavery days... And all the laws that passed and said I was free seems like a lie to me. Because I can't even decide how to wear my own head of hair without it being such a big affair and a symbol of how much I care to demonstrate that I am proud to say I'm black and I'm beautiful. But, that is the question to which I must answer and tell the truth... How do I say "Be proud!" To the little girl that comes from my womb if my appearance brings any doubt about what I think my heritage is all about. So today I don't buy any Indian hair And I throw my jar of perm in the trash And I sit my pretty tender head in the chair And when she says "Ma that cornrow’s too tight!" I say "Child! Be quiet! Sit back! Mama ain’t got all night. "