the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collection

3 | when i am ungrateful for my roots

my hair and i
have had the worst of times and
the best times;

our relationship, such that
some days --

some days,
when i look in the mirror,
my head filled with all this (unrefined)
black cotton,
i want nothing more than to pluck her from my skull
make a blanket out of her;

in the space she leaves behind
transplant a full head of hair

(the source: a white woman)

uncaring of
what she had to go through
in her yesteryears
to get here;
uncaring of
her history and
her diaspora.

on days like these,
days where my hair be as unyielding as my skin be dark
i wish i could shed this gift
from god--

let my head be a barren land of toil and hardship,
the scorched remains of a burned plantation farm--

and while i fantasise this often enough,
that it may concern the average outsider--
especially if their skin tone be closer to:
the hue of a slave master,
rather than a slave--

it is fleeting;
often the result of hours spent,
combing tangled hair,

then braiding,
conditioning, and
hydrating it;
so the ends do not dry out

this, nothing like primary school
me
(a version of myself i still try to forget)
who hated the nappy of her roots;
how they were never as agreeable/desirable
as the white girls around her
(even with relaxer).

and it's sad
how growing up
i let mama put chemicals in my hair that burned my scalp
(without question)
just for my african roots to pose as "caucasian"

and for what reason?

to be more co-operative?
more manageable?
more obedient?

(we tried this already, centuries ago,
it didn't work!)

and so, in a way
this poem is a PSA
from me
to everyone who looks like me;

a reminder,
that yes there are days when my hair knots
seconds after it's been combed,
times when shrinkage
means it's near impossible to tie
but disastrous to leave out,
and moments of weakness
where i contemplate relaxing it,
like i did as a child
just so it can stay where it is lay,

but these things--
they are not self-hatred,
are not rejection of ancestors who lived long enough
to make sure i came into being.

this is frustration.
this is small.
this is being a human being;

a birth right
generations prior fought
for me to have now.

- and so to my natural hair. i'm sorry, i love you

--
[update]
i shaved head and I'm looking like a bombass queen (or at least i defo feel like one), also i recently re-read a poem by real amazing gal cigarettenightmares about the relationship between woman and girls and short hair. it's called: "so why'd you cut your hair?" and i highly recommend it. (tbh i highly recommend anything and everything mae writes, but this particular poem is thematically on par with this one so yeah).