By: JaTon Kılınç

By now, it is probably clear that I live on the Mediterranean, in a beautiful little coastal town. If not, please see “My life in Kuşadası.” I have the most wonderful neighbors any woman could hope for—well, except for one who nearly ran my daughter over in the grocery store’s meat department. He now bows his head in shame whenever we cross paths, though I might have given him the “God doesn’t like ugly” look. But that, mes amies, is a story for another day.

Most of my neighbors are Turks, some are British, and a few Americans live up on the fifth floor. Next door, I have an Irish gentleman who is always ready with conversation and tea. Yet something rather strange has happened in Turkey. I had a glimpse of it while living in Fethiye, but now that I am settled in Kuşadası, the picture is clearer.

Apparently, in Turkey, I am something between a unicorn and an ethereal alien from Saturn.

Why Saturn, you ask? Because it is the most mysterious planet, surrounded by shimmering rings.

I should begin by admitting that I was somewhat naïve before coming here. Despite all my research, there were things I could not understand until I experienced them. With Turkey straddling continents and standing only a stone’s throw from Africa, I assumed it had seen centuries of visitors from Russia, Europe, Africa, and the Far East. To be fair, Istanbul is indeed a melting pot of everything under the sun.

However, being the adventurer that I am, I ventured far beyond the city—to villages and towns along the Turquoise Coast. Turks, I soon learned, are accustomed to British visitors, who have been coming here for decades. They are also familiar with the Russians, who are plentiful along the southern coast. Many Turkish women even visit salons to emulate the “Russian look.” I have yet to meet a natural blonde Turk.

But a Black American woman from across the Atlantic? That was another story entirely—and one for which I was not prepared.

It began on our drive to Fethiye. About six hours in, we stopped at a scenic spot to stretch our legs. Almost immediately, car after car honked, and men shouted out of their windows. My daughter grew anxious and begged me to leave. I doubted they were simply excited to see a “chocolate and caramel” duo, but it was unnerving all the same. Still, my legs were aching too much from driving to care.

At the time, I blamed the attention on our flashy BMW and our Western clothes, which were admittedly a bit revealing that day. Do not judge me—after flying for nearly twenty-four hours, I would have agreed to a “lease-to-own” deal for my left cheek (you can decide which one, hehe) just to get out of the airport.

But I was wrong. It had nothing to do with the car—perhaps the clothes only slightly. The truth is that no matter how I dress, I stand out.

On a normal day, with my hair pulled back, I am simply a unicorn—a baby one whose horn is just beginning to sparkle. Not an Edward Cullen kind of sparkle, but enough for locals to know I am different. On those days, I get the friendly “nice foreigner” treatment.

Yet when I wear my hair in its full glory, everything changes. I transform from the quiet unicorn into the “Oh, wow!” spectacle—the real Black girl in town. Suddenly, I am offered free fruit by handsome Turkish men, complimented endlessly by others (some even while holding hands with their partners), and occasionally chased by sailors along the harbor.

One man once asked if my hair was real. When I confirmed that it was, he asked if he could borrow it until Monday.

Mes amies, I am no different from any other woman who appreciates a compliment. At first, it was flattering. But after a while, it became exhausting. Should I say Teşekkür ederim to every passerby? Smile and respond to every remark?

It is lovely to be admired for simply being yourself, yet it can start to feel like you have become an exhibit. Still, I am grateful that here my hair is called “curly” instead of “kinky.” My curls are thick, soft, and beautiful.

In America, it can be difficult to embrace what is natural in a culture obsessed with weaves, wigs, lashes, and extensions—a society where “plastic” is the norm. So for now, I choose to love myself as I am, to wear my curls proudly.

Next time I stroll down to the harbor without my husband or a male friend, I might wear a fashionable burqa. I am open to almost anything once. There must be one with a bit of bling on it, though that might defeat the purpose. Perhaps I will choose a bohemian “flower-child” burqa instead. And if I am feeling especially bold, I may let one curl dangle for all to see. Who knows? It might even help with haggling. I did spot something shiny I would not mind buying.

Before I prance off to the harbor again, I want to encourage around the world—to be brave. Travel to places that are unfamiliar. Go where everything looks and feels new. Explore valleys where the language is foreign, and the food makes your nose dance.

Above all, to my Black sisters everywhere: rock your natural hair. Embrace your curls. Step into the world and experience the sheer joy of being a unicorn for a day.