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Aug 10
poem 1 comment
Worlds.Within.Words

what i will tell the hairdresser

mediaRecorder_5b6dbbacda37b.ogg
Freedom, I used to think,
was long hair billowing
behind me in the wind
split ends and bed head and braids
down my back.

I used to mourn when
the girls I knew with long beautiful hair—
red, mostly, like tendrils of fire—
cut it all off.
Who would shed their phoenix feathers?

Now the hair which I took such care
to grow out, always growing out,
weighs upon my neck
strangles me when I lay it on my pillow,
little coils of rope, still wet.

I think I know those girls-turned-women
for I, too, thirst for an unfamiliar freedom—
one where the wind strokes my shoulders
instead of toying with dead cells—
a new kind of confidence, power, beauty.

When before have I wanted to shed the past?
 
Audio download:
mediaRecorder_5b6dbbacda37b.ogg
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Posted: 08.10.18
About the Author: Worlds.Within.Words
"I say I want to save the world but really/I want to write poems all day" -Dorothea Lasky
MSG / CONTACT
RECENT LOVES
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Discussion

Comments

  1. EmilyAnne
    Aug 10, 2018

    I love your comparisons..."Tendrils of fire"..."little coils of rope"...dead cells". Awesome imagery. Not to mention, I am one of those people who grow out their hair (well, long enough that I can stand it) and then chop it all off. Long live short hair! I really related to this. Thank you!

    "To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard."
    -Allen Ginsberg

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