The Butta Guru

She wakes, and the sun doesn't rise, it bows. Because her crown isn’t made of jewels, but of roots and rhythm, coils that curl like prayers, twisting upward as if they remember every woman who came before her. Each strand holds stories. Of grandmothers who braided strength into partings, of mothers who hummed while greasing scalps, of sisters who sat between knees, laughing, learning, loving in loops. Her hair is not a trend. It is a testament. A language of ancestry, a map of resistance, from cornrows to clouds of cotton-soft defiance. The world once told her to hide it. Tame it. Straighten it. Erase it. But she said: No. She said: This is how I bloom. She walks now in her fullness, shrinkage and all, unbothered, unapologetic, unfiltered. Edges laid like whispered scripture. Curls coiled like galaxies. And when the wind moves through her locs, twists, puffs, or braids, it doesn’t ask questions, it sings.