My hair is brown. My hair is free. My hair has not always been free. When I was five, I was moved from foster care in Virginia to an orphanage in Washington, D.C. Immediately, my hair was sheared with an electric clipper. I was humiliated. I looked like a boy. As my humiliation intensified, so did my determination. One day, my hair would be free. When I was ten, I was moved to a different home. My first question-“Will you let my hair be free?” The answer -“Yes.” With each passing year, my hair grew about six inches. By the time I was the tenth grade, my hair was below my waist. My hair was finally free. My best friend, Jude, had free hair too. We would meet at her house to iron our hair before we went to school. The straighter we ironed our hair, the longer our hair appeared to be. When Jude got her driver’s license, we started making trips to Georgetown to shop the boutiques. We bought Mexican peasant tops, embroidered with bright colored flowers. We bought leather purses, boots, and belts, and silver jewelry. We were so free. The last time I saw Jude, her hair was still long, but she wasn’t free. I cut my hair five years ago. My daughter cried. I am still free.