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Abstract Paper Craft


Matted, twisted, dread loc’d

afros of thick wavy knots

a texture of curls inherited.

Visions of childhood braids

adorned with pink butterfly barrettes,

my hair is singularly unique.

As a child you wouldn’t see my hair advertised on T.V.

or products on the shelves of local grocery stores,

never plastered on billboards.

A neighborhood secret of black owned

beauty parlors filled with the scent of

straightening irons flattening the glory of resistant waves.

Increased heat and an abundance of grease

pomade burns were the badge of getting my hair ‘Did.’

I wore that scar like a mark of passage

abandoning my knots and tightly wound waves

I reached for the dream of manageability

as I tried to fit in with the status quo.

Today, the young grow their tight curls

with identity and acceptance of

its kinkiness, never combed or cut.

I’ve learned to love the crown my mother wore

not to be touched out of curiosity

only admired for its individuality.

(First appearance at 2022)

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