Nope. You can’t touch my hair. Even if my hair catches on fire, do not come to my rescue; just let me do a Michael Jackson spin move to put the blaze out. Honestly, there is nothing I hate more than people groping and marveling in National Geographic–esque hushed tones about how my hair feels different than they expected. It’s frustrating how something as simple as a quick trip to the supermarket can turn into an impromptu seminar about the history of black hair, during which I’m supposed to clarify where I stand in the #TeamNatural vs. #TeamRelaxer debate, discuss how I think black/white
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