My hands already know how to braid my hair
At 15, I cut my hair
the ends tickle my chin.
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.
I do not like how I look
on my driver’s license
My face is exposed, ugly, bare…
not hidden by hair.
I like seeing my hair braided again.