The Quiet Life of Hair

Hair begins quietly.

A soft rebellion

against the smooth silence of skin.

It grows without announcement—

a forest made of patience,

a thousand dark threads

learning the language of wind.

In childhood

it is careless,

falling into eyes,

catching sunlight like secrets.

In youth

it becomes identity—

cut, dyed, shaped,

a flag we raise above the forehead

to say

this is who I am today.

But time

is a slow barber.

It trims without asking,

thins the edges,

leaves small clearings

where thick fields once stood.

Still,

every strand remembers something:

rain on a summer street,

the weight of a lover’s hand,

a quiet morning

in front of a mirror.

Hair keeps growing

as long as it can—

a stubborn poem

written by the body.

And when it finally falls,

it leaves behind

not absence,

but the echo

of all the days

the wind passed through it. ✨