Follicles
By Grace Wakefield
Every golden morning
I view the black strands
Cascading down my arms
Each individual strand
Coarser than the last
Refusing to be unseen
Shave them
Each time I soak in heat
Their sporadic layout
Turns into something uniform
They become one.
A mass of femininity
Pouring down my limbs
Wax them
Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But my hair won’t hurt me
It’s a protective layer
Covering my skin and
Confirming my identity
Pluck them
The strands travel up
My hands and
My fingers
But the strands translate
Into a biological map
A map of womanhood
I refuse to
Shave them
Wax them
Or pluck them
Hair makes me a woman.
What is a woman?
Illustration by Anna Kuptsova
