My Mama and My Hair
One comb,
One brush,
Some spray to tame the frizz,
Two handfuls of gel
to secure the final product.
First, she brushed.
Then she combed,
so the curls could find their way back home.
Her gentle hands held my head,
while the comb steered it in each direction.
With her unmatched patience,
she worked her way through each knot.
There were so many knots.
Those wild strands-
I never understood
how they got each other tied up
in such a mess,
But my mother combed.
She sorted through every problem,
Those curls jumped into.
Even though,
After every rescue,
There was a new mess.
Those locks
with the spirit of dread locks,
were never content,
not for a moment.
So, she combed.
Her hands cramped,
but she combed.
My stubborn hair refused,
knowing the comb was only
trying to help.
Time passed.
My hair conceded for the day.
The knots built up.
My hair returned
the next morning
to my mother’s side.
absolutely hysterical.
So, my mother combed.
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