Hair

If you want to know if somebody was loved growing up, ask them about their hair. She can't speak for little boys, but she assumes for them it would be how many pairs of hands they were ready to exchange. One for their mothers' wombs - the feathers of their intrauterine life - cool now, heated then. Another for their mothers' spine, around the waist and up, like ivy up the walls of long-held wishes, cooler, embroidered softly in a flipped reach for the neck, where another, in an embrace, like a tiny, two-sided necklace, would tip back, blindfold their mothers' eyes while growing ancient eyes on the back of their very palms, and cathartic ones on the front. Fingers, multiplied by two up to ten, would comb wavy into straight hair, and straight into wavy, or, in a glottal stop, would just be mesmerised by how wavy would stay wavy, and straight straight, how many other types of hair will go back and forth between being one or another, or just themselves, authentically themselves, untangling, untangling, untangling it, like any sacred melody, before leading the eyes, old and new, into foreseeing the intricate maze of weightless webs of womanly charms. Hair textures, tints' metamorphosis into colours, thickness, styles, accessories - nothing left to chance. No length predetermined, changing all the time, historical stages of roots, follicles and shafts. An extension of the primordial dermis, smooth with caresses, but also furred with cuts and bruises of another past, her hair is ultimately the only memory left of the rare animal she was while growing up. Deep-rooted, pappus-like, sprouting florets blown by the wind, her hair has evolved over the span of zillions and zillions of seconds into the grey strands she can see now. No scientist could possibly ever tell that evolving towards extinction can be called evolution, except for the greatest ones who have gained clarity in the perfection of life. "I've been thinking about not dying my hair any longer" is the moment she has turned her own history on its head. The same head growing the same hair roots. Different colours, shades, textures, styles, accessories or no accessories. People around her can swear they have heard a different kind of story. This one person, for example: " She had said she'd be back from her son's house by nine, but it was eleven, and soon it was midnight, without a word from her. I tried making her change her mind before going there, but I was met with fierce determination. She was going to tell him the only story he wasn't able to grasp after he had moved into adulthood. She looked dishevelled but convinced this time she had the right proof. Her white hair blowing in the wind..." Background photo created by freepic.diller - www.freepik.com https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/little-white-flowers-lie-brown-hair-curls_2612550.htm#page=1&query=hair&position=12 Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.