my hands already know how to braid my hair

My hands already know how to braid my hair

 

At 15, I cut my hair
the ends tickle my chin.
sensational.

 

At 8, my hair is too short to braid.

 

Back to 15. My fingers miss the eleven absent inches.

 

At 8, I braid my mom’s hair
         and she brushes my bangs.

 

Back to 15. I hate my bangs.

 

At 10, my hair is long enough
           and my hands already know how to braid it.

 

At 12, I braid everyone’s hair on the tennis bus.

 

At 13, he likes my hair long.

 

At some point, I think how long it takes to wash.

 

Then, 14, I like my hair
                 and not my face.

 

Then, 15, my hair is heavy
                 and hot on my neck
                 and my hands already sweat.

 

Now.
16.

 

I do not like how I look
 on my driver’s license

 

My face is exposed, ugly, bare…
not hidden by hair.

 

but.

 

I like seeing my hair braided again.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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