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A poem about my hair

Queen Curly
By, LittleBallOfFire

I'm from hair that needed an explanation,
the confusion and stares.
Buying flat irons and hair brushes,
a valiant attempt to tame
the beast on my head

I'm from strangers hands touching,
springing the coils up and down,
Their eyes filled with excitement,
unaware of their ignorance.
They are petting me like an animal.

I'm from great clips and supercuts.
The lack of experience with
"Hair like yours."
Two in one products.
The "big chop."

I'm from YouTube tutorials and magazines.
Type 3B hair.
Armed with a plethora of new products,
designed to strengthen
and not control.

I'm from Cantu and Ouidad,
deep conditioners and diffusers.
Weekly wrapping my concoction
in a t-shirt, not a towel,
letting my recipe settle.

I'm from finally accepting
the gift I was born with.
Loving every knot and tangle.
No longer feeling the need
to justify my beauty.

I'm from hair that resembles a jungle.
Wild, mysterious, and large.
That causes stares from left and right,
because they are mesmerized by the beauty
of the crown that sits on my head.
I am a queen crowned in my curls.

 
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