A whisper, “Medusa.”
Muffled snickers and laughs I barely hear and try to ignore.
Again, a whisper, “Medusa, can I rat your hair?” from the person sitting behind me in class.
I wonder again why I was born with ugly, wild, dark, untamed, curly hair. Why couldn’t I have been born with straight, BLONDE hair like my classmates?
I’m reluctant, but in the spirit of cooperation let them rat my hair.
I sit on the floor as my Dad blow dries my hair. I hate having my hair blow dried. I hate that my scalp is tender and hurts when he tries to brush it.
I know it’s 20 degrees outside or colder and I can’t go to bed with wet hair. But I don’t like it.
The brush gets tangled and finally the handle breaks off. The next day, Dad insists that I get a short haircut.
There was a little girl who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
When she was good, she was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
– Mother Goose
I remember my Nana quoting this to me one day as a small child. I assume it was a day when I tended toward horrid rather than good yet I don’t remember the reason just the rhyme.
It was very appropriate for both my hair and my attitude.
Sweating I take a break from dancing and walk toward the club entrance for some air.
Some guy, “Your hair is gorgeous.”
Guy, “I’ll pay you $400 if you let me videotape while I cut it.”
Me, “Umm…no thanks.”
This post is linked up with Red Writing Hood over at Write On Edge. This week’s prompt? Hair. Go visit and show some love to the other bloggers.
See you soon!