After nearly a decade of rocking my bald baddie crown, I’ve made a decision I never thought would shake me this much: I’m growing my hair out. Funnily enough, shaving my head at 18 felt like the easy part—an act of freedom, an exhale I didn’t realize I’d been holding. But choosing to grow it back? That’s been the real emotional pain point.
For Black women, our hair is never just hair. It carries weight—cultural, emotional, generational. It shapes how we’re seen by the world, by our families,and by potential partners. It even influences how we see ourselves. And somehow, everyone thinks they have the right to an opinion on it—as if it belongs to them.
I found a sense of peace in my baldness. There was a beautiful simplicity in it. No wash days, no detangling battles—just me, unfiltered, letting my face card do all the talking. Period. I felt my most grounded, my most beautiful, when my head was clean-shaven. So much so that as soon as I saw the slightest bit of growth, I’d shave it down again—every five days like clockwork.
But now, at 27 going on 28, I need a change. I’m ready to see myself through a new lens. And as I move into this next chapter of my hair journey, I can’t help but look back—back to the fluffy 4C ‘fro I once wore, and the moment I chose to let it all go.
I grew up in Atlanta and attended a predominantly white private school in Buckhead. Being an unapologetically Black girl in that space came with constant resistance. My hair—and really, my whole being and appaerance—was always under a microscope. I became used to the commentary, the questions, the sideways looks, not just from white students, but from the Black students as well.
In an environment like that, especially during such an impressionable time, it’s easy to start feeling like who you are isn’t enough. But even through the noise, I held tight to a strong sense of self. That strength came from home. My parents—especially my mom—were my mirror when the world tried to distort my reflection.
I still remember the days I’d come home carrying the weight of being called ugly… or when classmates took photos of me at lunch with my natural hair in protective twists, sending them around the school negatively comparing me to the rapper Chief Keef (and that’s just the tip of the iceberg). My mom was my soft landing, always reminding me that I am her “beautiful brown girl.”
Still, the wounds ran deep. So when I moved to New York in 2015 to attend NYU’s Clive Davis Institute of Recorded Music, I wanted a clean slate. I needed to strip away the years of ridicule and trauma, and for me, that meant cutting it all off. Starting anew.
My parents were fully supportive. My mom only joked, “Go for it! Just know, Lyric—you’ve never seen the shape of your head.”
Turns out, I loved the shape of my head!
What started as a means of healing became power. My baldness wasn’t just a style—it became a statement, a shield, and my signature. It was quietly literally my brand. While many women are taught to hide behind their hair, I found my truest confidence without it. No armor. No distractions. Just me—bare, bold, and fully seen.
Now here I am, ready to start all over. For Black women, switching up our hair is almost a rite of passage—second nature, even. One of the most beautiful things about our hair is its versatility. But for me, embracing that didn’t come naturally. Not this time. For the first time in ten years, I’m growing my hair out—and surprisingly, it’s become a new healing process.
It’s forcing me to sit with the trauma I’ve long buried, the pain I tied so closely to my hair. I’m realizing now that no matter how much love I received at home, the ridicule and mean-spirited comments from my peers still found their way into the corners of my self-worth and the recesses of my mind. The reason I was so quick to shave my head at the first sign of growth? In simple terms—I didn’t feel pretty with hair. My 4C ‘fro reminded me of pain, not pride.
But as my hair continues to grow, I’m not just relearning it—I’m relearning me. I’m falling in love with myself all over again. Some days, I look in the mirror and live for the jet black fullness, the softness, the story in every kink and coil. Other days, I want to grab the clippers and start fresh. On those days, I call a friend to talk me off the metaphorical ledge. Because this time, I’m making a point to stay steadfast. I’m standing in a new, vulnerable space—and I’m learning to stay there.
The truth is, our hair is boundlessly beautiful. It defies a single definition. It coils, it kinks, it waves, it flows—and every texture, every curl pattern, every strand tells a story. Our hair holds memories. It holds traditions. And for many of us, it holds both joy and pain.
What makes our hair so powerful is its ability to transform. It mirrors our growth, our boldness, our softness, and the various forms of our femininity. It’s an evolving reflection of who we are and who we’re becoming. And while the journey may be filled with highs and lows, moments of deep pride and quiet insecurity, there is freedom in reclaiming it on our own terms.
So whether we’re rocking a ‘fro, locs, a silk press, braids, a bald head, or something in between—our hair is ours. And that alone is worth celebrating.
