charlottesville winter

I. Hair Loss

I consider myself black; my mother is not.

Her hair is black, glossy, and fine. She would have grey (or silver as she liked to call it), but she dyes it regularly—herself, not in a salon.

Black, fine, sparse hair crowned my head when I was born.

My Asian-inspired locks grew until I was six months.

Then, my hair fell out, and my hair began to grow like my father’s in afro puffs.

My mother had no idea how to do black (or ethnic as salons liked to call it) hair.

My father’s family thought my mother was uppity and didn’t offer to show her the ropes.

I spent a lot of my youth in crooked plaits dreading the moments my mother would rake her wide tooth comb across my tender scalp while humming “Good Morning, Starshine.”

I hate my hair almost as much as I hate…

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