Phoebe Robinson’s You Can’t Touch My Hair: And Other Things I Still Have to Explain is an essential read for anyone curious about the intersection of race, gender, and pop culture—delivered with equal parts humor and hard-hitting truth. Through her essays, Robinson invites readers into her world as a Black woman navigating a society riddled with microaggressions, systemic biases, and outright absurdities, particularly surrounding Black hair.
humor can be a form of activism—and that even in the face of frustration, there’s power in owning and sharing your story.
For me, as a Black reader, this book resonates deeply, speaking to shared experiences while also providing fresh insights on topics we often discuss in hushed tones or among trusted circles. Robinson’s candid reflections—whether on beauty standards, racism in retail, or the layers of identity—come alive through her sharp wit and a healthy dose of ’90s pop-culture nostalgia. The titular essay sets the tone, exploring how Black hair is often misunderstood, fetishized, or policed. Robinson explains the weight of Black women’s hair choices, noting that how it’s styled can directly impact how society perceives and treats them. This essay isn’t just about hair—it’s about autonomy, respect, and the cultural significance of hair as a form of expression. Robinson humorously yet poignantly captures how exhausting it is to constantly defend your choices or field invasive questions like, “Can I touch your hair?”
Her message is clear: be curious, but do the work yourself.
Using her lived experiences, Robinson shines a spotlight on societal blind spots. Whether recounting the time she was ignored by a cashier because of her race or sharing the challenges of being a woman of color in comedy, she bridges personal anecdotes with larger systemic issues. The essay addressed to her biracial niece, Olivia, is particularly touching, offering heartfelt advice while reflecting on what it means to grow up navigating multiple identities. What’s remarkable is Robinson’s ability to make her storytelling feel both relatable and universal. For Black readers, her stories feel like shared victories and frustrations; for others, it’s an opportunity to listen, learn, and laugh alongside her. Robinson makes it clear that while Black women are at the center of her narrative, there’s something for everyone willing to approach the book with an open mind.
Robinson’s creative process—juggling her podcast 2 Dope Queens, stand-up comedy, and this book—paid off in a polished work that feels deeply personal yet universally engaging. She writes with the voice of someone who’s spent years in comedy, knowing how to land a joke while simultaneously packing a punch. One standout theme is how Robinson captures the painful absurdity of everyday racism. For instance, she shares the story of a stranger petting her hair without permission at a hotel, likening such moments to a broader disregard for Black women’s bodily autonomy. These moments are laugh-out-loud funny but also sobering—because they’re rooted in truths many Black women endure.
Robinson captures the painful absurdity of everyday racism… These moments are laugh-out-loud funny but also sobering—because they’re rooted in truths many Black women endure
Robinson’s book couldn’t have come at a better time. Her reflections dovetail with cultural movements like Solange’s A Seat at the Table, particularly the song “Don’t Touch My Hair,” which she cites as perfectly summing up the Black woman’s experience. In interviews, Robinson emphasized the importance of self-education, urging readers—particularly those outside the Black community—not to rely on friends or colleagues to act as their personal encyclopedias on race. Her message is clear: be curious, but do the work yourself.
Phoebe Robinson’s You Can’t Touch My Hair is a must-read for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of race, gender, and identity in a way that feels both approachable and revelatory. It’s the rare book that entertains and educates simultaneously, combining comedic brilliance with cultural critique. This book reminded me that humor can be a form of activism—and that even in the face of frustration, there’s power in owning and sharing your story. For Black women, it’s a celebration of resilience; for others, it’s a call to listen, learn, and do better.
