Hours, days, months…At least it feels like it,

When I’m sitting in that chair,

Enduring those troublesome knots on my head.

My fingers can’t help but get stuck when I play with them,

In an attempt to “fix it” before the comb can inflict any pain.

The drops of water…or the survivors… after the wash,

Slide down the ends,

Quietly joining the collection of dead hair clumped on the floor.

The holder of the comb hoots and hollers:

“You got some thick hair!”

“Look at these naps!”

I start to wonder whose scalp is being tugged…

And whose neck is sore from being jerked in different directions.

Those little rebels on my head refuse to de-tangle,

My tender head can’t help but feel attacked, when the comb aggressively grabs the root,

Leaving behind a throbbing soreness.

Why? Why can’t this process be less painful, easy?

Why? Why can’t it be like there’s?

Straight, easy, accepted.

Beautiful when wet.

It is not until those hours are up…

The final touches are made,

The smoke from the dryer clears,

The mirror is held up to reveal the truth & dispel the ugly thoughts,

Unraveling the beauty.

Though tough, my knots are not flawed...

The pain they bring is no mistake,

They are worth every minute, every hour.

Black beauty is pain, but it is worth fighting for.

No matter the form, my hair should be proud…

So it can develop its own flow against the wind,

So it can voice its pride as it immortalizes the culture within me.