Jazz Club by Gloria Keeley

Hair of My Head

I used to hate my hair. This tidal wave of curls, Splayed in any direction Dangling down over my eyes, Comb-resistant, Knot infested, And God don’t make me think About what would happen if I got gum In it. Stuck in coiffure caverns Are bits of petrified spearmint From Middle School.

But I love it.

In high school Senior year, I spent nearly everyday Until graduation With a hat or hood up Desperately defending my do On hot summer days. My sweater was a sauna, My wool toque Contained the Great Deluge. My classmates took refuge From a putrid stew Of B.O. and weak Dove anti-perspirant. I was a miscreant All to conceal my hair. To keep it contained.

But I love it.

by Bennett Gilleland

I looked in the mirror Palms pressed into prayer Speaking into dead air To any power in the universe Or non-descript cosmic deity, “Please God, Santa Claus, Satan, Great Dreamer Cthulhu! Please anybody Make my hair flat I hate my curls I hate them!”

But I love them.

Someone kisses me Brushes their hand Through a thicket of rank brunette brambles Only for them to unclasp from my mouth And whisper, “I love your hair.” I winced both from the remark and After they ran their thumb Through a nest of knots. “It’s okay,” I say back Silently thinking Of how much I want my toque, Baseball cap, Or hood wrapped around my skull Covering it up, Removing it from the equation. No one else Henceforth Shall bear witness to my Head of Hair, Wig of Wool, Crusty Cowlick, Foolhardy Fringe, Malicious Mane, Or Quixotic Quaff For one more second.

But I love it.