The Black Bonnet Girls

Wrapped tight but never hidden, the headband becomes more than an accessory—it’s a quiet declaration. This story explores how Black women use hair, fabric, and ritual to claim softness without surrendering strength. Reflects on control, culture, and care, and how a piece of cloth calms coils, quiets scrutiny, and makes room for softness.

At 3 a.m., Shaw slept—trains passing, stars shining, houses quiet. I was awake, meant to be cleaning our room, the space Ivy and I had shared since the womb. Her side was immaculate; mine lived and breathed. Usually, those hours were freedom. But this night was different. I wasn’t smoothing sheets or wiping stains. I was holding Ivy’s cold hand, tubes breathing for her, wishing with everything in me that this were just another ordinary night.

Unruly explores the quiet story living inside every coil, curl, and strand. It speaks to how we’re taught to bend and straighten ourselves into shapes we were never meant to hold, and what it means to unlearn that. This piece reflects on identity, generational patterns, and the freedom that comes when we finally see our beauty as it is — not as it’s been defined for us.

Her childhood brush with the soft bristles laid overturned on the bathroom’s titled floor—coiled strands of oily black hair .

Behind the vertical bars, through the narrow gaps, I see a glimpse of who I could be — should be.  Eyes closed, the weight of my head res

Looking up now, I wondered what he saw that convinced him that way was the way — which cloud was responsible for leading him astray?

hen someone you love dies, they say you see them in everything: from the chipped coffee mug to the toothbrush with the worn bristles or even

“Why did I have to be a girl?” I grumbled, arms crossed tight against my chest, wincing as Mama combed out yet another nasty tangle in my ha

Every Sunday, my younger sister Nichelle would wedge herself between my legs, ready for our ritual—me styling her 4C hair into whatever new look she found online. She’d flinch as the wide-tooth comb worked through stubborn knots, her silky black bonnet waiting for the final touch. These moments were more than hair—they were our time to talk. She’d bring up people and memories I wasn’t ready to revisit, like Terrance.

None of them needed to express why they were here using distorted rhetoric, honey-coated lips, or any of the complex words they learned to attain their degrees. One word was enough. Regrets. He arrived there first, shoving his hands in his pockets. If anyone asked, he would blame it on the cold. " Just trying to 'em warm ." Honestly, it was to do something with them. He didn't want to clench them in regret or let them hang loosely by his side as if he had truly let go of it a