Hair-itage

I have been told that the key to respectability 

Lies within the perfect lock

As if untangling the secret to success

Were as easy as a daily routine

Of rinse, lather, scrunch, and repeat

As if predicting the future of my people

Were as simple as the natural inheritance

Of our roots, of our keratin

Consider the coil

The shiny strand which drapes itself

Around a nervous finger,

Conditioned

To be toyed with,

To be bent around the will 

Of those most uncertain,

Most cowardly,

Most fragile

It circles

Circles

Circles

In an eternal cycle

Twice as long

Twice as strong

But still ends up going nowhere

It drinks up everything it is given

Though nothing is ever enough

When the world strips it of nutrient 

As quickly as it receives

So it grows to be dry

Brittle

Breaking—

Easily damaged

It settles in bunches and 

Only splits off when ready

To pursue dead 

Ends.