In the reflection is a girl who looks like me, only different. Normal me has her hair whipped into straightness, a full face of makeup five days out of seven, and the look of eternal confidence. Now I stare at myself, like I always do, confused by this thing my hair can do. It can go into this style and change me completely. I’m no longer Chi, but Chiamaka, daughter of a Nigerian mother who loves the hair on my head more than I ever could. “Thanks, Mom, it’s great.” And I mean it. I love having my hair like this. But I never go outside like this, ever. It’s too risky. I’d rather straighten
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