Amani stood in front of the mirror, her long, kinky hair stretching toward the ceiling like a soft storm cloud. Today was picture day, and her stomach fluttered with the usual worry. Her classmates always whispered things like “Why is it so big?” or “Can you flatten it?” And even though she tried not to let it bother her, the tiny questions felt like tiny pinpricks.
Her mother peeked into the room, smiling as she held a jar of shea butter.
“Ready for your crown, baby?” she asked.
Amani nodded. Mom called her hair a crown—thick, coiled, beautiful. But Amani still wasn’t sure she believed it.
Mom rubbed the butter between her palms, warming it until it shone. She gently worked it through Amani’s hair, parting and stretching each section.
“You know,” Mom said softly, “your hair is a story.”
“A story?” Amani frowned.
“Mhm. Every curl, every coil. It’s a reminder that you come from strength. From people who made beauty out of their own hands. Your hair grows toward the sun on purpose.”
Amani looked at the mirror again. Her coils sprang proudly, full and alive. The soft shine made them glow in the light.
At school, she walked into the classroom with her hair loose and magnificent. A few kids stared—but this time, Amani lifted her chin.
“Your hair looks like a cloud!” a girl said.
Amani smiled. “Thank you.”
During picture time, the photographer positioned her on a little stool.
“Would you like your hair brushed down?” he asked politely.
Amani shook her head. “No. I want it just like this.”
She sat tall, letting her hair bloom around her. The camera clicked.
When the photo printed, she saw herself—her brown skin glowing, her smile wide, and her kinky curls taking up space in the most beautiful way.
For the first time, she didn’t just see a girl trying to fit in.
She saw a girl wearing her crown.
And she loved it.
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