We don’t let just anybody touch our crown. It’s a special exchange—brushing, touching, laughing, weaving our history. Head tilting, oil dropping, love flowing. Massaging out the worries. Twisting faith into our being. Unwinding centuries of hurt; warm, greased hands repairing. The dresser mends. Palms telling the story of Black beauty and progression. The comb is holy, the brush is a tool of the supernatural, the fingers are blessed.
