Boyish

Amma doesn’t look at me the same way.
She used to love my hair.
It was long
Natural
It used to curl a little at the end and form little waves
It was deep and dark, almost a perfect black
And she would oil it to make it even richer
weaving Love and Tradition
Into my hair.
Now that’s dead.
Last Saturday, I was determined.
Nothing could stop me
Because that hair
That hair she loved
I loathed.
While she saw waves,
I felt weight.
A weight on my back
A weight, omnipresent
A weight within myself.
It was like a little seed
Planted in my brain, I don’t know when
But I had cared for it
Watered it
Let it grow.
Its roots