"In Africa, only mad people go around with their hair tangled and unkempt like that why would you choose to do such a thing?" A Nigerian sister said to me casually over a telephone conversation. I sat on the other end enraged and upset at this woman.

Now you know a Black woman's hair is a sensitive topic. From Jamaica to Johannesburg, we fuss over our hair. This article is for any woman who has scrunched up her face after looking at my hair. This is the story of a personal journey into my personal beauty.

Growing up, I used to watch beauty pageants religiously. Glued to the tube and anxious to see who would be crowned Miss America, I soaked up images of melanin-deficient, skinny chics with long silky hair, who spoke in short perky sentences. She was embedded in my psyche. Everywhere I looked (TV, magazines, billboards, movies) there she was - Miss Cute White Girl.

Despite my parent's relentless efforts in trying to counter that White Girl's effects on me -- sending me to Black private schools, teaching me cultural consciousness, and buying Black doll babies -- I was still brainwashed (even the Black dolls had that silky hair, and Miss White Girl seemed omnipresent).

I, like 99% of Black girls (in my unscientific study) had a color complex, and secretly longed to wake up one morning, skinny and White, with silky hair.

By the age of nine I was dieting, working out, dodging the sun (for fear of getting too black), and relaxing my hair, all in an effort to look less like the natural me, and more like Miss White Girl.

At eleven I even entered the Miss Pre-Teen USA pageant. Knowing I was a chocolate chunk surrounded by a sea of Breyer's vanilla - I still thought I had a chance in representing America and all her beauty as Miss Pre-Teen USA. My talent? A dramatic performance of Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise." I didn't win.

Entering young woman hood, I reluctantly came to grips with the fact that I would never and could never be Miss White Girl, and slowly attempted to discover my own beauty. The first step in cultivating some self-love was vowing never to straighten my hair again, and so braids were my style of choice.

I felt good about my hair choice. I was not mimicking Miss White Girl's silky hair, I was embracing my heritage by wearing my hair in braids, and I thought I had overcome my insecurities, until one day, I had a "real" experience.

I was "between braids" (the day or two between the time you take out your old braids and your appointment to get new ones done) and an event came up which I wanted to attend but what was I going to do with my hair? I stared at my self in the mirror horrified at the truth, and spent hours crying, appalled by the girl with the nappy hair who stared back at me.

I was forced to be honest with myself for the first time in my life.

My skin is dark. My body is big. My hair is nappy I hated those things about myself.

It was difficult to accept my reflection - but I did. And after a good cry, I felt relieved. I didn't have to lie to myself anymore. Whether I liked her or not, this is who I am.

So I walked out the door with my hair just like that. Hell, if Miss White Girl can wake up in the morning, fling her hair a few times, and then walk out the door, why can't I? So I did. It was the most liberating experience of my life.

Who said the way my hair naturally grows out of my scalp is bad anyway? Surely God made no mistakes when he created my hair! I was created in The Creator's image, right? "Naturally," I got some crazy looks, mainly from sisters who were still lying to themselves.

It was painfully freeing to wear my hair naturally. Like a love letter to myself, telling me "I love you just the way you are."

It wasn't until I admitted I hated aspects of myself, that I could begin to honestly and completely love myself.

So why the locs?

Before deciding to loc my hair I did some research on the history of the style, and - contrary to what my Nigerian sister told me - locs trace back to Africa, and were adorned not by "mad" or "unkempt" people, but the highly spiritual. It is believed that the coil in African hair which make up locs act as an antenna receiving energies from the sun; allowing people with locs to be sensitive to their own spirit and to surrounding energies. The term "dread" as it refers to our hair was initiated by Europeans who, in ignorance, thought the hair was scary.

Equipped with this information, four years ago I began the process of locking my hair. I am no longer the queen of denial. You can call me Queen of the Nile, as I rock my natural African beauty. It's not about just accepting who you naturally are, but celebrating her!

While rooming with Miss White Girl at NYU, I later discovered that she is not as happy as her fabricated smile lead me to believe she's got even deeper issues (and she's really a brunette).

�