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Unkempt MAG
May 25, 2018
My hairs stand precariously toward
the heavens,
oddly bent,
twisting, spiraling tighter and more dense until
the frizzing tresses bounce,
spring-like coils
of dark brown whorls
bursting out my scalp,
breaking out of
tight elastics as they
besiege the air around my head,
filling in the vacuous space
while the abundant air
retracts from its breadth,
with a whirdledeedoo,
the curls
pushing higher,
like wound-up springs bouncing
through feathered clouds
as they ascend
angrily into the atmosphere.
© Andrea S., Oakhurst, CA
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Growing up, my hair was a constant reminder of how different I was from my majority white classmates and friends. That sense of dissimilarity left me feeling ashamed and embarassed by my short, curly, black hair. As I've grown older I've learned to appreciate my hair and this poem explores the trials and triumphs of my hair.