Preparing for my 10-hour commitment, I set my moisturizer, shea butter and laptop on the corner of the mahogany dining room table. As daylight faded into darkness, I sat, parting my freshly washed hair into square sections and attaching the synthetic hair to the roots of my natural hair like my late aunt Holly taught me.
“Your hair is ugly;” “You look like Medusa;” and “Why is your hair like that?” became my normal. I felt as if the things they were saying were accurate. My hair became the punchline.
Lacquered acrylics fix beneath silk/Constricting around cranium/
Sustaining the days’ style, for the morning/I lay my head upon my pillow
Resting my eyes/And putting to sleep all of my worries that lay beneath my hair.