Dark tendrils of hair wriggling like eels
in the wash-basin.
It’s alright for hair – hair can flow freely,
or even be cut short
without too much adverse comment
though an auntie or two may say ‘It’s a pity,
she had such lovely hair.’
The subtlety of hair that is not quite black,
with one lock escaping artistically
lifted on the wind
wild as a teenager.
Hair cannot get pregnant
by a boyfriend of the wrong colour.
Hair is not pressured to enter medical school
against its better judgement.
Hair keeps on shining and absorbs everything.
Hashida’s stream of hair
Ginda’s rivering hair.
Hair is its own terrain –
you could wander in it forever.
Hair doesn’t strangle anyone on your behalf.
It doesn’t curse and scream.
Hair is merciful.
It doesn’t kill you if it finds out.
It doesn’t say ‘She should have stayed with him.’
or ‘She was too dark,
never trust the dark ones.’
Hair has no desire to say the unsayable.
It doesn’t embarrass you by sprinkling dhania
on fish and chips.
Hair is a private sea with its own waves.
It doesn’t cry in the toilets.
Or make you dizzy with its different lives
and guises.
It doesn’t have to be a mother
or a daughter
or the double-headed mother-daughter.
It isn’t like spittle on the back of a jacket.
It isn’t like the key-rings at the sea-side
with everyone’s name on but yours.
Hair just grows
and falls and falls
with its own lights
its own tiny illuminations.
