To Cornrow(The Prelude)
Naomi Campbell | Serendipitysabilities
It starts at the root,
sitting in between your mother’s lap,
with your hair pulled back,
with her favorite gel,
because the sweet smell reminds her of her own childhood days,
when her hair too was parted in all sorts of ways.
Roots tightly grabbed, pressing and twisting with hands of affection,
but was misunderstood as society's version of perfection.
Thorns of the relaxer, piercing the scalp,
causing a never-ending drought,
as self-love, no longer watered her being.
Like branches in the fall, broken hair strands changed her season.
In the mirror, she questioned, “Is this really who I am?”
when the Creator said that I am “Fearfully and wonderfully made.”
Before me, fingers laced through the two holes in the scissors,
from fear, to curiosity, to anxiousness,
back to fear, and then-
to a strange idea, of the possibility of being free.
Snipping away insecurities,
Trimming away conformity,
Cutting away the oppression, endured by my ancestors.
Staring back into the mirror.
Is this the essence of my liberation and contentment, that is overwhelming my very presence?
Or is it God, comforting, whispering and telling me,
That it starts at the root,
that I am dipped in black and brown, and that kinks and coils, created my crown.
Kinks and coils,
create my crown.