By Megan Kewaza 
Hair means so much in her daddy’s world, in her heritage. In Uganda, hair is a story. It tells who you are, how old you are, where you fit, even what you believe. Every curl, every coil carries that history.
Every morning, I run my fingers through her hair and I see her crown. I see where she comes from. Her culture is part of my life now. I read, I try, I ask questions—not to get it “right” or earn points—but because I want to honor her, to honor where she comes from. I want her to feel proud of herself, proud of her history, proud that her mom notices it, respects it, cherishes it.
I grew up with fine, straight, oily hair. Learning to care for her thick, curly, dry hair has been nothing like what I know. Oils, curl charts, products, routines—I’ve had to learn a whole new language. Keeping her hair healthy, avoiding breakage, figuring out what works for her curls—it’s been hard. Some days I feel like I’ll never get it right. And yet, I keep going, because she’s worth it.
Then she runs to me, bouncing, excited for her hair to be done—especially when it’s time for braids. She smiles at herself in the mirror and often declares, “I’m a princess!” In that glow, every doubt I’ve had disappears. Every struggle fades. Caring for her hair isn’t just a routine anymore. It’s love. It’s celebration. It’s honor.
Through her hair, I honor her roots and celebrate her history. Every braid, every curl is a reminder of who she is, where she comes from, and the love that surrounds her.
by Zehra Naqvi 
by Laura Niebauer Palmer 
