A fantasy
of long lustrous
layered locks is
what makes me look
longingly at the mirror.
Hair grazing my shoulders,
brushing against my breasts,
caressing my hips with its silkiness:
a distant dream. Now it barely scrapes
a distant dream. Now it barely scrapes
my neck, tickles it with coarse choppiness
and taunts my efforts with stubborn shortness.
I do all what granny advises: i oil my hair, comb it
hundred times, scrape my fingernails and massage it
lovingly. Yet it remains frustratingly short. I wring my
hands at the mirror. When will heads turn as i walk
along? And when will men bump into each other
at my approach? Mommy may say i am
obsessed but is it wrong to desire
beauty? We can endlessly
argue about this.