Waves Upon My Head

When I was young my mother
didn’t know how to tame my wild curls.
She would brush and brush,
while my hair would frizz and frizz
and I grit my teeth and dug
my nails into the wooden chair.
The marks are still there
if you would look for them.

And when I grew a little bit older my hair
grew too. And it fell near my waist
with rippling waves that my mother’s
colleagues called “Princess hair.”
My mother would stroke them as the light
danced and turned my brown locks to gold.

And when I was at the height
of my silly adolescence,
I cut it.
And my mother cried
as they carried my ponytail away.
I thought it would be invigorating, but
when I looked in the mirror I felt
my beauty had gone.
So I never let a sissorces near my hanging treasures
till two years would pass.
I measured them every day,
waiting for them to lengthen and grow
the smile back on my mother’s face.

And now, my hair falls somewhere
in-between, not knowing which way
to grow as I step out into the world
half held back by my mother's grasping hand.
As I pull away and her arm stretches,
fingers holding tight, I wonder if
I even know how to stand.