Tamed and Tokenized

Johnnie Reed

Hair holds memories—so cut it.
Braid it, but only by hands that know-how.
(No, your girlfriend can’t try.)

Military regulations keep me in check.
Once long, now cropped short,
Professional.
Tight curls, coiled stress,
Strong enough to cradle a pencil
But too fragile for loose thoughts.

Low porosity—
The rains of mood swings can’t cling.
My hair’s tough,
Unyielding.

Adored, but only if understood.
The same pattern repeats,
The same comments echo:
“It feels like a sheep; let me pet it.”
“I’m so glad my hair’s normal—none of that nappy stuff.”

Exploration turns to exploitation.
When my hair is long and nurtured,
It’s celebrated—
But not for me.

“Your curls are perfect for this campaign.”
“Can we feature you in our brand photo?”
Compliments wrap around my image,
Not my identity.

Lightskin allure:
Each strand reduced to a symbol,
A token of beauty,
Not my story.

Once called maggots when twisted tight,
Now revered when long,
Twisting gel applied at 2 a.m.—
Four hours to achieve beauty
That doesn’t inconvenience anyone.

My curls are alluring,
But don’t get it twisted.
When success demands it,
You know what to do.

Cut it short.
Cut it off.

Because curls are only cute
When dressed up as a professional,
And the act is over when
Assimilation calls.
Short is clean,
Clean-cut—
None of that dreaded, nappy shit.