Hair defines my existence. Waist-length, deep-ashed brown hair curls. It had the appearance of being black until stricken by waves of the sun.
A mess of curls winding in a counter-clockwise manner, although some remain limper than others.
They would blossom in search of moisture in all directions giving rise to frizz and defying their truth length as they climb towards their roots.
This was the criteria by which my love was measured; by the stretch of my curls rolling down my back. Each additional inch because of another level of infatuation for you.
These deep-ashed brown curls soon became a coarse noose that held my self-worth in the balance.
Should I threaten their growth and vining past my waist, would you no longer love me the say way? I began to resent the sprouts of curls that defined my beauty, my love, my ambiguity.
They remain a frizzy tether between us. The one tangible feature that I knew you appreciated.
Should I set us both free from this coiled grip? What will become of me without the billowing curtain of curls that have shielded me from the shames of my own roots? But, what of my femininity and fertility?
What will you continue to grasp to keep me under your control? I am my hair. What will I be without my hair?