You'll sit on a friend's chair,

hands fumbling in your lap

as bright red tresses float down

Like leaves in autumn.

When you look in the mirror you might

skim a hand over your head,

forgetting there's nothing there, and say,

"Damn, I feel free."

 

People stare, glare, size you up,

and some are bold enough to speak

(they like the sound of their voices):

"Boys like girls with long hair, dear,"

"How will you get a good job?"

(As if a man has ever been questioned

for having too-short locks)

"You should grow it out, you'd look

so much better,"

and everyone seems to think

that the ritual of hair-shaving

involved circumstances dire and bleak.

 

But our rituals are composed

of freedom and joy;

as our razors glide over our heads

we scrape ourselves free

of your window-dressing,

And I remind you that our worth

as women

does not reside in our hair follicles;

you'll have to look harder for that.