Even though Simone Biles is the most decorated U.S. Olympic gymnast with over 35 medals and the Presidential Medal of Freedom, some people still criticize her.
One person complained, “Simone Biles’ hair never looks right. Everyone else on the team looks put together, but she looks like she just rolled out of bed.”
Before the women’s gymnastics team finals, Simone Biles, 27, shared a message for her critics on her Instagram Story.
“Don’t comment on my hair,” Simone Biles wrote in a video she posted. “It was done, but the bus had no AC and it was super hot. Plus, the ride was 45 minutes.”
In another Instagram Story, she shared a selfie and said, “Gonna hold your hand when I say this
Next time you want to comment on a Black girl’s hair, JUST DON’T.”\PARIS, FRANCE – JULY 30: Simone Biles of Team United States reacts after finishing her routine on the uneven bars during the Artistic Gymnastics Women’s Team Final on day four of the Olympic Games Paris 2024 at Bercy Arena on July 30, 2024 in Paris, France. (Photo by Jamie Squire/Getty Images)
Many women usually wear their hair in a slicked-back ponytail or bun, but Simone Biles has been wearing a looser style.
The rules say USA gymnasts must be “well groomed” and keep their hair “secured away from the face” so it doesn’t block their view of the equipment.
Despite the rules, many people on social media have criticized Simone Biles’ hairstyle.
Comments include:
“Simone Biles’s hair stylist should be fired.”
“Did Simone Biles purposely not do her hair? Every other gymnast’s hair is neatly done, but hers is messy. It almost seems on purpose… wtf?”
“I know Simone Biles talked about hair comments in her documentary, but she needs someone else to do her hair, not just her mom.”
“Simone Biles is flawless, but her hair isn’t.”
I don’t see anything wrong with Simone’s hair. She’s following the rules, so she should be able to wear it however she wants. People need to leave her alone!
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The Gift of Fido
The silence in my small house had grown louder with each passing year. Old and alone, the days stretched out, often indistinguishable from one another. I thought about getting a dog, a creature that would fill the emptiness, a warm presence against the encroaching quiet.
One chilly afternoon, shuffling through the familiar streets, I saw him. A small, scruffy shape huddled near a bin, dirty and clearly hungry. He looked up as I approached, his eyes wide but without fear. I knelt down slowly, offering a tentative hand. He didn’t flinch. I stroked his matted fur, spoke softly to him. When I stood up to leave, he simply followed, a silent, trusting shadow.
Now, he is my dog. My Fido. I am his human, his owner, though it feels more like we own each other. The silence is gone, replaced by the soft pad of his paws, the occasional sigh, the happy thump of his tail against the floor.
I talk to him constantly, sharing my thoughts, my worries, the mundane details of my day. He answers in his own way – a tilt of the head, a soft whine, or his favorite response, a vigorous wash of my hand with his rough tongue.
“Fido,” I’d told him just the other day, the worry etching lines deeper into my face, “tomorrow we won’t have anything to eat. The retirement money is gone, finished. We’ll have to wait until pension day!” He just licked my hand, as if to say, “We’ll figure it out, together.”
And then that blessed day arrives. I join the queue, a line of fellow retirees, each clutching their worn pension book, shattered by time and use. My own is tight in my hands, a thin lifeline. Fido, tied patiently nearby, shakes himself happily, a little dance of anticipation. He knows this day. He knows that today the bowls will be fuller, the meal a little richer, a little better than the thin gruel of the days before.
Winter arrives, wrapping the house in its cold embrace. Without a fire, the air bites. But Fido is there. Curled tightly against my legs on the worn armchair, or tucked beside me in bed, his small body is a furnace, a constant, reliable source of warmth that chases away the chill. He is more than just a dog; he is my living, breathing blanket against the cold world.
The first hesitant rays of spring find us sitting outside, bathed in the gentle warmth of the returning sun. We sit in comfortable silence, simply existing, together, grateful for the light, for the warmth, for each other. And from deep within my heart, a simple prayer is born, a quiet whisper of profound gratitude: “Thank you, Lord, for creating the dog.” For creating Fido, who found me when I was alone, and filled my life with warmth, conversation, and unwavering companionship.
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