I'm black....my hair is DEAD

There's a war within the black community (one of the many right). Rather than focus on substantial issues such as the rising rates of out of wedlock births and even higher rates of newly diagnosed cases of HIV/AIDS amongst minority women, we have chosen to focus on dead protein. Yeah that's right hair.
Recently in life and on the net I've encountered notions that suggest as a memeber of an african diasporic race, you must wear your hair naturally in order to be authentic. Apparently the amount of kink your hair possesses is somehow correlated to your blackness. To such arguments and notions I say fooey. One's ethnicity is not determined by augmentable features. While you may be able to alther certain physical attributes that may readily gave way to your ethnic makeup, you will still have the blood of your ancestors running through your veins.

As a women of color, I am proud that all shades and textures are finally being recognized, adored and emphasized. I enjoyed perusing blogs dedicated to natural hair care until I happen upon an article where the author professes her superiority over relaxed and weaved women who are "obviously interested" in imitating the european beauty standards and as a result less black than she. It's also thrown around a lot that most women who straighten their hair do so because they fear they can't advance successfully in corporate america with a natural 'do.
How pathetic is it that you feel you can think for me? Even worse, how pathetic that your supposed superiority comes not from your academic or professional endeavors and accompolishments but from the dead roots that rise from your scalp. I suspect that although you'd label me as a confused woman with identity issues, your arrogance is clearly a manifestation of the void you feel for the disconnect in our history or perhaps even jealous of my confidence and pride of and for my blackness that eminates naturally for I do not need gimmicks to profess, assert or claim my african ancestry and history as a black women in America.
You feel as though your afro puffs, cornrows and cowrie shells somehow connect you closer to the souls of our foremothers and fathers than my relaxed and weaved tresses. I won't sit here and list my accompolishments that would probably show my connection is far greater than yours as I would be doing the same thing as you but I will say this:

When I walk past the african burial ground, I stop. Not because It's crowded or I'm at a stop light. I stop, in remembrance and respect of those disturbed (and I say disturbed to reference the disrespect shown to the remains) souls who laid the foundation of this nation. I stop because the blood in my veins though obviously diluted tells me my connection lies beneath my feet.
I stop because I AM them and they ARE me.
Their spirit does not care that I come to them relaxed, speaking the language of their captors, and dressed in denim unadorned by cowrie shells and visbile sankofas. They only care that I come, that I carry on their story and that I NEVER forget them in looking forward to the future.

So the Question is:
Why do you care?