I am definitely not my hair
By Thando Mabena
This, my thick black kinky hair,
is extremely coarse, dry and tightly coiled with broken promises
And a hidden agenda,
Much like our politicians.
It has the texture of an overworked old sisal rope and occasionally throws tantrums like my two year old when sleep chooses to battle him.
It is tough, this hair of mine, like hardship and poverty.
It will stand stiff and tall in gale force winds while roofs are being blown off houses and trees arch to back flip.
It will stare a bottle of gel in the face with neck snapping attitude when styled into a bun and vehemently refuse to lie back flat and sleek.
It’s length is a magic act fooling even the harshest of critics with the keenest of sight.
It will shrink and have me looking like a boy posing for a mugshot at the first contact with water.
Then the next hour, be shoulder length and frizzy like a cheap weave.
Combing it is so painful, like a break up via text message, but with more tears and even more confusion.
This here hair of mine, is a plea for forgiveness and mercy from karma for all our sins.
My hair is a real struggle.
Me, on the other hand, am a pretty easy going girl with a happy soul and a colourful personality like a packet of M&M’s.
Not to mention a deadly sense of style too.