When Oji and I reconnected in 2008, we began courting long-distance in 2009. And every time he saw me, I looked different.
New hair.
New vibe.
Same woman.
At the time, it felt casual—almost accidental. But looking back now, I realize it wasn’t just about style.
It was about identity in motion.
Long-distance love has a way of magnifying presence. When you don’t see someone every day, every reunion becomes a reintroduction. And somehow, without planning it, I became someone who never arrived the same way twice.
Fast forward through marriage, children, faith, deadlines, neurodivergent parenting, and the quiet rhythm of grown life.
The pattern never left.
Oji doesn’t ask anymore if I changed my hair.
He already knows.
Sometimes it’s six months.
Sometimes it’s three.
Sometimes it’s the same week.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped calling them wigs.
I started calling them hats.
Because wigs felt too small a word for what they represented.
Shoes.
Handbags.
Jewelry.
Hats.
Choices. Expressions. Mood. Language.
Not disguise.
Not insecurity.
Not performance.
Freedom.
When I tried the 30-inch bust-down for the first time—a style Oji had never seen before—it wasn’t just a new look.
It was a reminder.
I am still becoming.
Hair as Identity Language
For Black women, hair has always been more than hair.
It’s history.
Creativity.
Resistance.
Protection.
Joy.
As a writer, I’ve learned that identity is not fixed—it’s edited, revised, and rewritten across seasons.
As a mother, I’ve learned that adaptation is not weakness—it’s wisdom.
As a wife, I’ve learned that playfulness is not childish—it’s intimacy.
So when I switch my hats, I’m not changing who I am.
I’m honoring who I’m becoming.
Some people change playlists.
Some people change cities.
Some people change careers.
I change crowns.
And maybe that’s why Oji sometimes laughs and says it feels like he’s dating the same woman… and not.
Because he is.
He’s married to the core of me—
the faith,
the Brooklyn edge,
the writer’s heart,
the mama’s instincts,
the quiet resilience.
But he’s also married to a woman who refuses to fossilize.
Same Woman. Different Crown.
Under every hat is the same woman.
Rooted.
Evolving.
Faith-filled.
Creative.
Still learning herself.
The hair changes.
The crowns shift.
The silhouettes evolve.
But the core remains.
So yes—I call my wigs hats.
Because hats are not disguises.
They’re declarations.
And maybe identity isn’t about choosing one version of yourself and staying there forever.
Maybe it’s about giving yourself permission to become… again and again.
Same woman.
Different crown.
(To be continued.)
© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
