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.


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.


This poem is about: 


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