Nobody ever really says it to your face. But the silence always finds a way to hum. You walk into a birthday party wearing simple cornrows you made three days earlier, full of confidence—scalp fresh, edges sleek. But your sister, decked out in 30 inches of jet-black body wave and side-eyeing you mid-sip of champagne, leans over and whispers with a charming smirk, "You okay?" “Just feeling chill today?" That's all it takes. A statement dipped in honey but heavy with meaning. You know what she’s really asking: Why didn't you dress your hair up? Are you financially okay? And so it begins—the quiet performance that we all rehearse. We switch our hair, depending on the stage.

It’s pretty bizzare. The way a certain kind of hair conveys not only style, but also status. Even if your braids are perfect, there’s a silent question mark over your head. A tiny, unspoken question: Did she run out of money for a “proper wig”? A frontal or closure has become a synonym for elegance, for being “put together”. Not always because it looks better—but because it looks like effort, expense, gloss. The bundles, the lace, and the melt encode a silent class system. And while the CROWN Act—a U.S. law created to ban race-based hair discrimination—has brought language to the struggle and even its own annual observance on July 3rd, CROWN Day, that recognition doesn’t erase the judgment that still blooms quietly in the rooms we enter.  

These judgments don’t come from strangers. They come from sisters, cousins, girls in group chats, and aunties with arched brows. It's the kind of gaze that lingers a bit too long and causes you to run your hand over your hair a little too often. You didn't realize you were underdressed until everyone else showed up with inch-thick lace frontals and long cascading curls. Suddenly, your two-strand twists feel like you brought a Tupperware of rice to a plated meal. No one says anything, but somehow, everything gets said.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re wearing your bank account on your head. Wigs have become more than style—they’re currency. The longer, the better. The silkier, the richer. The flatter the lace, the higher the clout. It’s not even about what you like anymore. It’s about what people expect you to wear if you want to be seen as polished, serious, or stylish. And so, women find themselves toggling between their preferred styles and their expected ones. Not because they’re ashamed of their roots, but because everyone around them seems to have agreed, without saying so aloud, that some styles mean you’ve made it—and some mean you’re still trying.

There’s a kind of woman I admire, though. Someone like Temi Otedola. Yes, she’s born into wealth. But what I really love is how she doesn’t perform her wealth the way people expect. She dresses softly and wears her hair calmly—sometimes natural, sometimes braided or in a low sleek bun. And yet, nobody ever questions if looks wealthy enough. She doesn't need an elaborate lace wig to show that she belongs in the room. She's created a look that is authentically her—clean, quiet, and confident. And I see it and think, "That's what I want too." To be myself, completely, and still be read as enough.

Even when it’s not said, the hair hierarchy shapes how you’re received. You’re trying to dance at a club and someone leans in close and says, “You look so natural tonight,” like it’s a compliment—but also like they’re asking if you left your real look at home. Or someone compliments your braids with that classic add-on: “But I can’t do them—my face is too round / my forehead too big / I just don’t feel dressed up enough.” Which is code for: You look good… but I couldn’t risk looking that simple. Again, no harm meant. But the message lands all the same. And this is exactly why CROWN Day matters—not just for boardrooms or job interviews, but for birthday parties and baby showers too. Because the standards we carry didn’t come out of nowhere; they’ve been quietly taught and tightly held.

The funny thing is, most of us actually like versatility. We enjoy playing with different styles. There’s satisfaction in switching it up, in flipping between curly and straight, high bun and low ponytail. However, it begins to feel less like expression and more like strategy when you’re changing your hair not based on mood, but on how much value you’ll be granted in a certain room. When you avoid your favorite low-maintenance style not because you’re bored with it, but because you know someone would quietly wonder why you didn’t “try harder”. 

I’ve had moments where I literally stood in front of the mirror, twisting my locs up into a bun, then taking them down again. Asking myself if they were formal enough. For what, I couldn’t say. A dinner? A party? A photoshoot? I just knew they weren’t done enough. And it frustrated me — because I love my locs. I feel the most like myself with them. But in certain settings, I could already picture the polite questions, the tilted heads. So I switch it up. Not for me — but for them. Whoever “them” is. And in those moments, I think about what the CROWN Act is trying to protect. Not just the right to wear your hair, but the right to feel whole in it.

What hurts most is knowing that part of the pressure is unintentional—it's passed down through generations. Girls grow up watching who gets praised and who gets laughed at. Who gets the fire emojis, and who gets the polite nod? So, without instruction, we learn what styles to wear for certain occasions, and what styles to avoid. It becomes part of how we evaluate maturity, beauty, and even wealth. A kind of unspoken dress code that governs our crowns, from childhood through adulthood. And, while legislation like the CROWN Act identifies the issue on paper, we’re still doing the work of untangling it in real life.

Still, there’s something quietly rebellious in choosing the hairstyle that makes you feel most like yourself, even when it’s not the flashiest. In choosing to wear the box braids to your friend’s white-and-gold-themed wedding. In rocking your locs with a red lip and a bold heel. In walking into a room and refusing to shrink because someone reads your hair as “too basic.” Because at the end of the day, it’s not just hair—it’s language. It’s legacy. And when you learn to speak that language on your own terms, it stops being code. It starts being truth.

And perhaps that is the true spirit of CROWN Day—not just legal reform, but the quiet boldness to walk into every room and know that you are already enough.