It was grey;
the one she was born with.
Not quite a ringlet, coiled so tight that when stretched, it recoiled.
Soon joined by others in its ranks, thousands of them, only black…
all of them not quite ringlets, coiled so tight they recoiled
but too slow not to be flattened under the powerful regime
of metal more than a hundred degrees short of molten
lava flowing down her cheeks
that once was Ultra Sheen.
Shoulders hunched per generations of defense mechanisms born of instinct
passed down through her double helixes escorted by
the impulse to clench buttocks and hold ears while
trying to still the synaptic cleft activity that produces the reflex
that scars little brown girls forever.
Not quite ringlets --
heated, stubborn coils
re-coil angrily in the sun
setting the stage for the next phase, the new burn --
caused not by heat but by chemical arguments
that convince coils that coils are better = good if they do not recoil
and she accepts her fate and waits
for the tingle to tell her it is time and that they are no longer bad.
The battle to straighten (
make right) the naturally crooked (
coils) was fought
before acquaintances were made
before friendships could be established
before loyalties could be forged
before love affairs could flourish
between them and her.
Until one day the grey one;
the one she was born with.
Not quite a ringlet coiled so tight that when stretched, it recoiled…
DID NOT.
It was only then --
after
the one did not recoil,
after having lost almost 40 years of battles,
that she decided to win the war and let her stretched coils recoil and be
BAD = good...again!
© Sharon J. All Rights Reserved 2008
***
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