Lena Waithe is a brilliant black lesbian woman who has proven over and over again that she won’t be outdone or outworked when it comes to making bold moves in film and television. She also happens to be outspoken. Her responses to interviewers and award speeches consistently reaffirm her determination to increase visibility and opportunities for Black LGBTQIA folks, and many other marginalized identities.

At the 2017 Emmys, when she became the first black woman in history to win the award for writing in the comedy category, she said this: “The things that make us different: those are our superpowers. Everyday when you walk out the door, put on your imaginary cape and go out there and conquer the world—because the world would not be as beautiful as it is if we weren’t in it.”

Those words were shared multiple times over various social media platforms, and I smiled to myself every single time I saw them. Even though I should really know better by now, in my mind, Lena Waithe had become the symbol of someone who had already done all of her work. She seemed content to be 100 percent of who she already happened to be, and that was where I wanted to be too. I couldn’t imagine a person could speak truth and encouragement into so many souls at once without being evolved in a certain way, or at least, much further along in their emotional intelligence journey than myself and most people I knew. I forgot, as I often do, that nobody rocks with themselves 100 percent of the time, all the time. I forgot, for a moment, that Lena Waithe is a human being.

Then, she reminded me. On the red carpet for The Hollywood Foreign Press Association’s annual grants banquet, Waithe arrived without her signature locs. In fact, her hair had been cut into a low caesar with the sides faded, and a dope design to top it all off. She looked amazing. It stunned me even more than the rainbow cape she wore to the Met Gala in May, and it took me a second to realize why. When asked how she decided on what seemed like such a dramatic change to her appearance, Waithe replied, “I felt like I was holding onto a piece of femininity that would make the world feel comfortable with who I am.” As the kids say, I felt that.

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About a year and a half ago my friend, poet Angel Nafis, called. We missed one another, wanted to hang out, and in this new adult landscape with limited time, we had to make it count. Angel tends to inspire bravery in me. I find it near impossible to be close to someone so ferociously true to their own heart, and not feel compelled to do or be the same. I don’t remember if the original plan was to get tattoos or shave our heads. Either way, we ended up doing both on the same day.

Angel was familiar with our barber. He’d been shaping her up for months. I wasn’t familiar with any barber, or hairdresser, or anyone. I’d never really been able to care enough about my hair to form those kinds of relationships. My hair had been pressed, curled, braided, chemically-straightened, co-washed, worn in protective styles, and everything else, but never because I cared about my hair. I only cared that it was expected of me, and according to the people I knew, an important part of presenting myself to the world as a black woman.

I cared about that. Can’t let the whole team down on some personal shit. But what did my hair have to do with being a black woman? Don’t get me wrong. I love how black women recognize hair care and design as an art form, and growing up around women who did so was a beautiful thing to watch. I just didn’t want anybody to do it to me. It took too much time, too much thought, and I wasn’t interested enough to engage. I wasn’t quite obtuse enough to believe my disinterest in my hair made me less of a black woman, but the feelings lingered.

I also got a caught a quick gut check when Lena added this: “I think I thought for a long time, ‘Oh, if I cut my hair, I’ll be a stud, I’ll be—in the gay world, there’s a lot of categories—I’ll be a stud or I’ll be a butch, and I’ve always thought, ‘Well, no, I’m not that, I’m still soft,’ and I said, ‘Oh, I gotta put that down ’cause that’s something that’s outside of me.'” I’m a bisexual woman who will marry a straight cis man in September. The outside of my life does not always seem to match the inside to people who don’t care to know. I worried, for a moment, if cutting my hair wouldn’t be read as “trying too hard” to make match what should never have to. I didn’t want to look like I was trying to prove something, but the thing is…no one one was paying attention to me. No one cared what I did with my hair, and even if they did, it was mine. Why was I considering the hypothetical opinions of strangers who were generally unconcerned with anything I do?

There was really only one point: I did not like having as much hair as I had. I wanted to cut it. And yet, I wavered before my turn. I thought of backing out. Not because that’s what I wanted, but because I knew I would be trying on a version of my truer self, and once I saw her, I would not go back.

Of course, I let the barber cut my hair. I got a low caesar, and my edges lined up. When he was done, and I looked in the mirror, I saw me. More of me. And I was so glad. Lena said cutting her hair made her feel “so free and so happy and so joyful,” her smile easily reaching to her left and right ears. “I really stepped into myself.” While I still believe she is one of the most impressive creators with work available for us to enjoy and learn from these days, I no longer think of her as being beyond or above the work. None of us are. Not even me. I’ll try not to forget again, but when I inevitably do, I hope I’m still paying attention to artists like Lena Waithe who are always finding ways to remind me.

Ashley C. Ford is a writer based in Brooklyn. You can find more of her writing at ashleycford.com or follow her on Twitter @iSmashFizzle.

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