Nia Carter used to think her hair had moods.
Some mornings, it stretched toward the ceiling like it was reaching for the sun. Other days, it curled tightly against her scalp, as if it wanted to stay close and quiet. When it rained, it grew bigger. When it was humid, it grew bolder. It never asked permission. It simply was.
“Nia, your hair is doing a lot today,” her older brother teased one morning as she walked into the kitchen.
Nia rolled her eyes, grabbing a piece of toast. “It always is.”
Her mom glanced over and smiled. “That’s because it has range.”
“Range?” Nia repeated.


%20(1).gif)