Curls occupy the quietest part of my heart,

each tendril wrapped like a vine rooted in my chest,

holding my pulse in the center of each spiral.

My hands itch to rake fingers through every ringlet,

separating one uniform curl into a flurry of hair.

From Ice Blue to Electric Orange,

whether it be a short shave, or waist-length waves,

hair that is true speaks to the child in me.

It comforts the speedy rhythm of my mind,

and slows the racing of my thoughts.

Curls are the language that lull my spirit and awake my heart.

Every corkscrew on my head is an ounce to my confidence

and a step closer to contentment.

Like Sampson, I too have a super-naturalness to me,

hair that defies gravity, that caresses, softens, engulfs everything it touches .

It is my hair that gives me the strength to stand out,

arch my back, reach up in agreement and fly.