hair

My hair is in a mask tonight– a warm butter massaged into my scalp.  It makes the tendrils slippery-soft and coconut-scented, and slick, too slick for pillowcases, so I wrap it in a long cloth decorated with flowers and pinks.  The wrap will protect my hair tonight as I dream, cuddling it to whimsy.

My hair is growing out right now, wilding itself free.  There was a time when my head hung heaviest, and I had to distance myself from locks that remembered the worst days.  I had to give myself a chance to grow new tangles, to take new shape, to weed the part of the garden that only knew the hardest way to grow.

I had to make myself into a pixie, a fae, a magic, a short-haired girl whose roots were young enough to relearn everything.

The head wrap will hold my nourishment close, scent it in pink, and whisper stories tonight.  It will fairy tale the inheritance of my lifetime, lotioning the griefs until they are slippery-soft and coconut-scented and slick, too slick to cling to my poetry.

I am wearing a mask to bed tonight, and I wear masks more often than I’d like, but I am always hoping that pink butter softness will soak all the way through again, so when I finally let my hair down, it will breathe free.