Locks flowing and growing into a mane of silk of sheep fur of nest of bark of tree of mess and tangle.

Learning to care for the strands that fought with the comb in the lady’s hands, that resisted the the curious fingers, that refused to lie tame or flat in mist—my first personal responsibility.

Carefree and weightless before adolescence, I could swing from my knees and cut angles through the tide with my sharp cartwheels. And then I had to attack the dread lock.

I envied the glistening smooth heads of girls, smelling like laundry soap, with easy hair.


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