I remember when I cut my hair.
Stuck inside in 2021,
I’d pleaded to slice off the strands
That brought me discomfort beyond end
And separated into coils like snakes
That filled its venom into my veins
And rendered me paralyzed as they
Flatly stuck to my round face.
No matter its figure, it heightened my
Soft features, enclosing my mind
To my biological design with the
Intent to taunt my thoughts and mock
My hair’s desired spoken tongue
In which it willed to communicate.
The fad that was the bold bob once
Led a heroic movement against gender
Roles and for creative expression; yet, the
Act of shedding the inches was no longer a
Message of defiance, as portrayed by the past,
But an ode to my suppressed gender identity
And the cruel expectations of society.
The sand in the hourglass soon drained
Itself of its granules, and the head suddenly
Became lighter as each feathered strand
Fell still and each piece unaligned itself
From its perfected neatness—
Just as I intended it to be—and as
My Fingertips grazed the ends, I could
Hear the cowardly calls of conformity
Slip away into a state of tranquility.
A “pseudo-mullet” it became— as my
Mom dubbed it so—with locks that
Curl at the nape, pieces that refuse to
Choose to stay hidden behind the ear
Or free to the temple, and bangs that
Take hold of my forehead, embracing
It with gentle greetings.
Difficult it is to cooperate and keep its
Loud and proud shape, but every
Morning’s towel dry sparks fireworks
Through each follicle as it explodes out
From its slick back shell—compressed by
The shower stream—becoming alive as the
Day invites it to scream and rip through its
Dampened form.
Each head of hair may differ, but the
Stories, dreams, trauma, joy of which they
Hold—cannot be compared to another,
And in the end, it is yours. For me,
It was a new chapter to a life that was
Scolded for being obsolete and felt
Trapped behind curtains that had yet to
Be lifted to just above the brow.
In a style to call my own, I let the world
See me and hear my coiffure’s cry
As it no longer demands the urge
To be tamed, but the will to keep
Its true, unabashed form from those
Who deem it unworthy of its
Right to be.
