’ve been blessed in my career to interview some
of the most badass Black women to ever strut
this Earth. Icons. Innovators. Culture-shifting
unicorns in six-inch heels. Women who snatch edges and
awards without seemingly breaking a sweat. No matter the
lane—fashion, beauty, business, politics—I always bring
one question into the room: “When did you know Black was
beautiful?”
The reactions are everything. Eyes light up. Shoulders
drop. Giggles bubble up like someone just let a juicy secret
slip. And then comes the pause—that long, loaded breath
full of memories both sweet and sharp. Because sometimes,
that knowing doesn’t show up in the glow-up. Sometimes it
walks in during heartbreak, confusion, or right after some-
one mistakes confidence for attitude.
For me, the knowing showed up around 12. A ten-
der age when you’re figuring out everything from lip gloss
shades to where you belong. I didn’t find my beauty in a
magazine ad or after-school special. I found it in the house
I grew up in—with two parents who made sure I knew exactly
who I was.
My mother, stunning and confident, wore her brown
sugar skin like it was dipped in divine light. She made sure I
knew mine was just as glorious. But it was my dad—yes, my
dad—who really sealed the deal. The man who gave me my
willfulness, my humor, my athletic skills…and my first silk
presses.
Every two weeks, when I wasn’t rocking my go-to box
braids or natural curls, my father would press my hair. And
not with some salon-grade flat iron and product lineup. No,
no. This was old-school: hot comb on the stove, hair grease
on the back of hand, and me praying he didn’t get too close
to my ear. If you know, you know.
My dad isn’t a trained stylist, just the oldest of five
kids—three of them sisters—whose mom passed when he
was only ten. Out of necessity, he learned how to do hair.
Out of love, he got good at it. And out of sheer daddy magic,
he turned those sessions into something sacred.
We’d spend a solid hour and a half together—me, him,
and a whole lot of bonding. We covered everything: school,
life, boys (if I dared), and all the ways I planned to take up
space in a world that often tries to shrink Black girls down
to size. He never batted an eye. Just kept pressing and listen-
ing like my dreams were facts, not fantasies.
Those hot comb moments were never just about
straight hair. They were about affirming who I was. They
were about a Black man pouring confidence into his daugh-
ter—root to tip. He made it clear I didn’t need approval from
classmates, crushes, corporate America, or anyone who
couldn’t see my shine.
Black beauty is ancestral, intentional, complex. It’s
hot combs and glorious Afros. Cocoa butter and kitchen-ta-
ble talk. It’s showing up in a world that wasn’t built for us yet
still managing to steal the scene.
As I grew, that belief just rooted deeper. It’s in how I
enter a room. How I lift other women up. How I center us
in every story I tell. I carry my father’s hands, my mother’s
pride, and the spirit of every homegirl who’s ever helped fix
my crown—figuratively and literally.
We don’t wait for permission to shine. We are the
moment.
So yes, I’m coming for everything that’s meant for
me. And… a whole lot more.
LOVE, LEGACY
& A HOT COMB
BY JULEE WILSON
@missjulee
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YES, AND