I never knew a bundle could carry a whole spirit. That a 30-inch body wave could make me walk like I had no home training. That a curly lace front could make me laugh like I didn't just destroy a man's ego with a glance. I never knew hair—yes, hair—could *possess* me. But every time I switch it up, *she* comes out. A new version of me. Unapologetic. Unfiltered. Unrecognizable, even to myself.
It started innocent.
A silk press.
Simple.
Sleek.
Civilized.
But that press had me crossing my legs like a CEO and tapping my nails like I was judging everyone in the room. Men would offer me their seat even if I was already sitting. Women whispered, *"She thinks she better than us."* No, boo. I didn’t think it—my *hair* did.
Then came the jet-black bob.
Whew.
That bob was *dangerous*.
It made me talk with my eyes and roll my neck like punctuation. I had attitude for no reason. My heels sounded like declarations against the pavement. I slapped gum. I flirted with cab drivers. I turned down men like I was allergic to compliments. And when I passed mirrors—I winked. I *waved* at myself.
That bob had me acting brand new. And the crazy part? I liked her.
I *needed* her.
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The curly afro wig?
Babyyyy, that one made me soft.
Not weak—soft.
Like spoken word and warm honey tea.
I wore headwraps and bangles. Called everybody *“queen.”*
That hair had me outside hugging strangers and doing yoga in the park, wearing incense as perfume. Men would stare and say, *"You look like you heal people."* And I did. That version of me cried during full moons and saged my DMs.
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Then came the red 613 wet-and-wavy.
Chile…
I don’t even remember who I was when I wore that wig. All I know is people started calling me *"trouble."* I walked like the beat dropped when I stepped. I smelled like temptation. I chewed on straws and made eye contact *too long.* One night I caught my reflection in a car window and didn’t even recognize her.
She was wearing lipstick I swore I didn’t own.
She was smirking.
And her shoulders?
Rolled like she had a secret.
Men didn’t fall—they *crashed*.
Women?
Side-eyes, neck rolls, and whispers.
But no one ever said I wasn’t beautiful.
Even when they hated me… they *adored* me.
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Let’s talk about the jumbo box braids.
Those made me a philosopher.
I had time to think with those braids. I walked slower. Spoke clearer. Suddenly I was giving advice like I worked in a therapy office. I told my friends to *“cut him off”* like I hadn’t texted *my* toxic ex from a burner page just last week. The braids gave me authority. Like I was born on a throne. Like I *knew* better—even if I didn’t always *do* better.
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The 26-inch straight with a middle part?
That one made me *unreachable*.
Emotionally? GONE.
Men would say, *“Smile.”* I’d blink slow.
Women would ask, *“Where’d you get your hair?”*
I’d smirk and say, *“It was sent.”*
I don’t know what spirit that weave carried, but she didn’t play.
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There was the blonde bob.
Oooh, the *blonde bob*.
She was *funny*.
Like real goofy. Had me doing TikToks in the mirror and saying, *“OKAY PERIOOOOD.”* I laughed loud. Danced in gas stations. Flirted with men just for sport then told them, *“Aww, you’re like a brother to me.”*
She was reckless—but loveable.
Men tried to tame her.
Women wanted to be her.
But she refused to be boxed in.
That bob would ghost you in the middle of a date *and post about it*.
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And then... there’s the dreaded high ponytail.
Tight. Snatched. Slicked.
She don’t talk. She *moves*.
People get out of her way.
That ponytail means business.
Bank account balanced. Boundaries reinforced. Bills paid early.
She’ll give you a death glare while sipping lemon water and ignore your texts like it’s her job.
Cold. Calculated.
Deadly in heels.
---
Every time I change my hair, something *wakes up* inside me.
Something fierce.
Something forbidden.
Something free.
And while folks say, *“It’s just a wig,”*
Baby, *I* know better.
These wigs carry *energy*.
Souls, even.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I wore my real hair for too long.
Would I disappear?
Would all these women living inside me go quiet?
But nah… I ain’t ready for that yet.
There’s one more unit I haven’t tried.
It’s long. Auburn. With peekaboo highlights and a side part that screams *“Don’t start none, won’t be none.”*
She’s still in the bag, whispering to me.
And I can’t lie…
I think I’m about to let her out.
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