She longs for a hairstyle. In the innocent hope of braids, she releases dreams into the world. The hands that weave also nurture. She feels safe, the path is known, life is kind, her roots run deep, as deep as the braids themselves.

Though small, she knows that women suffer. But she thinks only of the braid. She does not know the cartographic heads of the enslaved, nor the resilience carried by the captive, but she feels that, adorned in braids, she can change the world.

It is the fingers of one woman that braid the hair of another. From the breast to the lap, and out into the world. From fear, to maps without paper and ink. Where the silence of the strands is a cry for help or an act of courage.

The braid is in the world. In women and continents, through different moments in history. It is not cultural appropriation, but emotional identification. Within the braid, the battle is unique. Through its winding path, it fulfills itself. And at its final knot, it sets itself free.