My Hair
My fondest friend on good days and most stubborn on others
She dances in circles.
Twists her body until she feels complete
And when she’s that happy you can’t tell her a damn thing.

My hair has freedom in its follicles.
She has no time to be hearing your complaints
Or suggestions
Or testimonies
All she wants to hear is the sound of her own laughter.

My hair has a big attitude
She will trap your prying fingers in her tangled locks
She will take anything that dares to touch her
She is not afraid of silly things like humidity, rain, or wind
(As far as she’s concerned that’s my problem)

She laughs at expectations.
She scoffs at your volumizing shampoos
She cackles at your thin combs
She’s disappointed,
but not surprised,
When you think a quarter size of product will be sufficient for all of her.
She knows when something wasn’t made with her in mind
But if you think she cares then you don’t have it twisted enough.

She no longer has a sense of what she should or should not be
She no longer thinks about what she can and cannot do
All she knows is what she wants to do and what she doesn’t
And what she’s not gonna do is lay down
Play dead
Act like something she’s not
Will herself into submission.
She says if God wanted her to be straight and compliant and “polite”
Then God would have made her that way.

And I used to be fooled into thinking being civil resulted in acceptance.
I used to ask her to quiet down
Tell her that laughing so loud was making others uncomfortable
And she stood on the dinner table
Looked me dead in the eyes
Gently caressed my face and told me
“If I barely listen to you,
what makes you think I care about what they have to say”

So now we both won’t apologise for Our disobedience
Our distraction
Our display
Or our dance.
We’ve decided that it is not our fault
If you can’t find the rhythm.