We don’t say it enough.

My hair is my crown.  Why don’t I like you touching it, because it is personal private sacred.

Why do I seem to snap at you when you ask for a feel?  What else would you really expect?  You wonder why my expression changes as if in a flash from a smile and a grin to apprehension and disgust.


And those around me try to make it into a joke, it’s okay, she’s only kidding.  They want to lighten the mood!

NO, I say.  It really is not okay.

I wonder if these same people would feel comfortable if I were to reach into the most private of regions for a feel at their hair?  Would that be acceptable?  I don’t mean to be crass, but my hair…my right…my choice.

NO, you can’t touch it, I say.  Seriously.  With no smile.  My voice tense.  My eyes sharp and my tongue ready to lash out.