To Be Just As Messy

I love to wear my hair messy.

It's probably because my grandmothers wore tight braids their whole lives

tight, because they mustn't know what it's like to be a free woman.

Maybe they laughed when they weren't controlled.

Maybe their lives were hard, but I'll never truly know.

But | like to let it grow.

I brush it, touch it, argue with it on days when my expectations are low.

I get to be a girl and play with it.

I certainly have to care for it.

She's high maintenance and never perfect to show.

There are so many steps to my hair-twisting, smoothing, coaxing her glow.

And when I braid her, my ancestors live a life that feels, in some way, slightly fair.

She sways and takes up space-above and below, spilling past my shoulders, and soon, to my waist, I hope.

I'm a free woman, and unfortunately, that is rare.

I do what I want, and what I want is full of care.

So, I will be gentle with each strand. l've got Indian hair-my roots command.

I like it messy, it's less of a demand.

They grow and they grow, defying the freedom they know, living vicariously through all the mothers before.

January 26th, 2025