What drives us to feed enablers of the Hair Industry?
Smoking hot combs, iced with Bergamot blue grease. Heads of burning hair and fashion magazines promising elegance in a jar of creamy, acid strong chemicals applied to virgin soft hair unappreciated by owners until the day nappy puffs sprinkle carpeted apartment lawns in protest.
Photographs of Diana Ross, Beyonce, Farrah and memories of corn silk soft hair possessively claimed with shouts of joy. My grandmother’s curls do not cover my head naturally. I have to pay, pay and pay to have something like hers intrinsically placed on my head.
Weaves, wigs and curling iron magic and still I want it. I want it now. I want it in the shower. I want it after a hard ride with sweat pouring and my muscles attentive.
I want ribbons of hair fantastically flowing from my scalp and rendering onlookers into trembling, jealous appreciators of what I have and they cannot from behind a floor to ceiling window overlooking Manhattan.
I want deep coils mirroring the intricate dance of intellectual thought on an Olympic scale.
Honeysuckle vanilla all in your nose, pinned against the nape of my neck.
Cashmere blankets and my fingers knitting toward “I cannot breathe” satisfaction.