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My Hair (and the road to acceptance)

When I was young my hair was well-behaved.
It hung straight with a beautiful sheen.
I remember, in fourth grade,
My mother took me to get a perm.
"Just to give it a little body."
I recall the smell of the chemicals
And spending hours in the chair.

Then I hit puberty.
My hair grew thick and wavy.
"People pay good money for body like that,"
My mother would reply to my lamentations.

I've since curled and straightened my hair,
All the while, cursing its in-between texture.
I've purchased every product,
Put faith in all their promises.
Added every styling tool to my arsenal,
Coaxing waves, relaxing it straight.

My hair is naturally a medium brown,
But who is ever content with "natural"?
I've dyed it red and black and brown.
Once (to my mother's horror)
I even went hot pink.

I've chopped my hair so short
I was mistaken for a boy.
I've let it grow so long I could sit on it.
I once donated eighteen inches of my locks.

Now here I sit, in my mid-twenties,
Finally accepting my hair color and texture.
I'm thanking my hair for it's endurance.
It's patience through the abuse and neglect.
I'm thankful for it's versatility and uniqueness.
I'm grateful, it has well adorned me.

And WHAT IS THAT!?! Right There!
It couldn't be!

A GRAY?

Learn more about this author, Terra L. Fletcher.
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