God’s gift to woman, a woman’s burden to self, I watch the endless rows of chairs filled with women wanting to be transformed mind, body, and soul from the root out; rows upon rows of chemicals waiting to be purchased, packaged in all shapes and sizes, purples tubes in neon packaging, jars of whipped hair dressings with tantalizing scents, cola shaped bottles stacked side by side, commonly mistaken for a candy shop, a simple hair store mutates into much more, it becomes a life source; the textures, oh the textures, passing me in spurts, cascading plains of waist long sun kissed blonde, silky to the touch, swaying in the wind, fluffy puffs of mahogany, almost angelic halo, soft as newly cut wool, so natural, so untamed, the smell of cocoa so potent, ruby red ringlets, carefree and curly, vibrant indeed; self conscience if not perfect, the ladies’ bathroom becomes a battlefield, the bumps, the bruises, the weapons of choice: a brush, some bobby pins, the occasional flat iron and hair spray, lots and lots of hair spray; in the hallway there are weaves, extensions, clip-ins, hair glue, wigs and hair pieces, synthetic products for a better self; worn containers left open and abandoned on the bathroom counter, strands of hair left plastered to its walls, colorful gook, a vital resource, left half empty or is it half full; safety scissors by day, sworn enemy by night, lurking around the corner waiting to strike, hand twitching and grasping, contact is made, hair falls, defeat so sweet, farewell to the long hello to the new, so wonderfully short; my short fuzzy hair, hair so short and fuzzy.