Plaiting hair is like weaving a story from thin air...
thin strands bunched together,
In coily curls, thick twirls
Bending and twisting around your pen, a comb
that aching moment when the alphabet lies jumbled
in your mind like hair knotted and
frustratingly curly from the root up
from rolling and lying around, unkempt
Too lazy to brush it...until,
The moment you must go out,
Like the pen in motion jutting words on a page,
refusing the blank blokes that show up...
the comb in hand tears through the knots and mazes
Of the hair-mind interlocked in the birth of
beauty on a page, as a crown on a head.
In this beautiful struggle, hair gives way,
bows in subservience to the might of the comb,
as she slithers through strands, terrains of thick growth,
The Story finally grows out, blows out in singular strands and motion
Fingers expertly detangle the loose knots.
Thus begins the journey of weaving, twisting, locking, plaiting a new
story on a head full of curly hair.