To the Racist Couple who approached me at Finsbury Park station

Yes, I am calling you racist for asking if you could touch my hair. My hair is not an exotic pet that exists just so you can stick your entitled fingers into it, swirling around my feelings of discomfort and disgust.

You can look, but you
sure as hell can't touch.

You invaded my personal space. Generally, I don't like people touching me unless I can see it coming and have consented to it. I don't like group hugs. I hate being on public transport at rush hour because of the close proximity I am forced to be in with strangers. Racist Couple, you touched my arm to get my attention - you already violated my body before asking my permission to do it again. Do you see how your behaviour was problematic?

What would touching my hair achieve? Did you want to see if it was real? If it was soft? It it made you feel whiter than the first snowfall on a late winter's eve? Your question actually made me feel sick in my stomach. It's 2015 and there are still people like you around.

I'm tired of people bothering me because of my hair. Yes, it's different to yours but that doesn't give you the right to approach me. I am allowed to be rude in the face of your ignorance because, frankly, at your age you should know better. I am angry at you and I'm also angry at myself, because after you were gone I thought "at least they asked".

At least they asked. Because so many other people haven't. People I don't know have dived into my hair, exploring the texture with their slimy fingers, just because they think they can. In their mind, they are superior to me. I am an object to be marvelled at, to be gawked at - but not respected. Oh, no! I can't be respected by them, treated like an equal by them, because they would never dream of violating an equal.

You have been warned.