Unspun Gold

In my grandmother’s kitchen my mother told me,

"You will never get a boyfriend

with your hair parted down the middle."

Her cigarette burned down as I burned down to a pile

of inferiority.

Clearly, naively, innocently, I listened.

I heeded the woman

whose golden spun hair was frozen in Aqua Net since 1984

that my romantic endeavors were reliant on where my hair

fell from the top of my head —

my not-gold, chocolate swirling curls —

and how delicately my hair sat atop my shoulders,

and how I should "probably brush out the curls because they look messy."

You look messy.

Sloppy.

Knotty.

Untamed. Unspun.

For years, I concerned myself with the aesthetics of my coils

rather than the intention of my character and the intentions that fell

from the bottom of my heart

and how loud my heart beat on my sleeve

and how unimportant my hair was but I could not see —

Could not see past my hair no matter how I lightened her,

past what I needed to be for my mother

in order to be loved by another.

That I was raised to be thin

to diet

to move

to try

to critique what I was

and not who I am. Unspun

To be thin and pretty God forbid I be a fat child and love my middle part —

Because we need to be thin and pretty.

My mother was thin and pretty

and blonde and gold.

And tall.

And had sky-high hair and box dye status.

As an adult I could be fat and pretty but not pretty fat and ugly

and only after I found someone to love my hair placed delicately to the side

and lightened gold by the sun and lemon juice, and finally spun,

could I be fat and pretty or ugly and thin

because at least I’d be thin.

I could let myself go only after

I placed my intentions and the messy heart on my sleeve

delicately to the side to make way for the gold.

I could unravel like my mother did and stand behind the kitchen island

and treat it as a podium and tell my daughter,

her granddaughter

You must change before you are loved.

You must be gilded.

So I walked the line of my middle part of

black and white —

Of judgment —

Of hope someone would fall in love

with my placement and one day I woke up too many years later and realized

This. Was. Dumb.

My hair coils and curls and speaks for itself

and spoke for me before I found my voice.

Dark and deep,

not gold, not gilded.

My body moves and grows and shrinks like my mane

and I am ever-changing

and always speaking.

Some days I may feel thin and pretty

or fat and ugly and now instead of dwelling

I release my hair

I appreciate the entropy

and whoever can love that entropy will love everything

I’ve come to love about myself and see the gold inside.