the hairdresser combs through my hair with long fingers,
diagnosing hair as dry as uncooked, squid ink pasta.
so, what would you like me to do today?
at my suggestion, the doctor blocks my reflection in the mirror
and tugs at her hair, smooth like arctic waters–
your hair is different than mine.
she mutters in a language i don’t understand, and says:
my hair is good for bobs, straight. your hair too curly. not good.
curly, wavy hair mimics water ripples and
brings breath to a still ocean
that the world covets with prayer because
stillness is peace, calm, manageable–
but fuck that bullshit.
peace is also life, life is breath–
with curly, wavy ripples crowning our heads
we are the ocean’s messengers
bringing the world breath.