I wanted to let the locks fall, tumble around, greedy in their need for attention, to be stared at and talked about. they were long and dark black, slight resemblance to waves,a little pretentious perhaps and definitely vain,which arose mostly from their wish to be have an allure, to be a part of the romantic ideology of "tresses that carried secrets, eyes that spoke volumes..."
yes they were definitely vain
but there were restraints as always. there are always people who talked. whose whispering bordered on the obscene.
the innocent pleasure in a statment like letting your hair down was no longer allowed
the mother tightly plaited them,armed with oil and combs.
colorful ribbons that did nothing to enhance anything. they sat, woven together, out of breath,dreaming of freedom, of blowing about with the wind, the strands wanted to touch the face they had missed so, the fringes wanted to curl up on a forehead that welcomed them, the sides craved fr d earlobes to whisper girly secrets.
they wanted a story of their own. and then one day. i gave it to them.
what made that day was a sorry state of mind, behaviour that forever confused me, one step at a time i was told but then no one followed the rules of the game they had taught me since from early childhood.
the tresses were punished
in a fit of rage and thoughts that ran in to all corners i chopped them of myself. with a blunt scissor
the edges were rough and the right side longer. the mirror spared me no sympathy
it showed me the facts as they were.
the dark mess at my feet seemed to ask
whats our story now
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