A free spirited , greatly educated, well travelled, open minded observant friend in her 40's, juxtaposed with a set of older generation ladies, including her mother , tut-tut-ing about her hair, and itching to nicely braid it and adorn it with jasmine flowers and clips.
She politely agrees, gets plaited and done, and then gets on with her routine activities of the day, wondering if there might be a change in people's perception of her.
I just wondered, what the hair must have felt...
in the wind,
harnessed by a clip
in a quiet falling in line;
sometimes
striving to stay away
from a hot neck
by knotty or naughty
crowning positions
with wisps
straining to tumble;
and sometimes,
in praise of gravity
just staying in place
happy to be free
and sometimes
seeking answers
blowing
in the wind.
But just sometimes,
they remember
a childhood
when
they revelled in
oil massages,
friendly tangled fights,
endless hot baths,
sunning to dry,
and then
a decent distributed
falling in place
with a winning ribbon,
waiting for the
prize jasmine rush.
The neurons
may have aged.
She knows that.
The hair has not.
And it still enjoys
being fussed over by Mom.
Suranga, the introduction before the poem sets the mood so beautifully!
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