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,

Breathe...

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.