My mind is racing as fast as the car windows
are streaming through the lightning and the love affairs.
He looked over hungrily as he watched my hair whip over itself,
clinging onto my glasses and my shoulders,
things he made synecdoches for sex.
Isn’t it funny how hair can mean one of so many things.
If you curl it, you’re wasting time on material things
that only define you because you allow it to.
Not because you like it curled.
If you do anything with your hair at all,
it is an invitation for men to compliment you.
You’re pleading for reassurance because God knows
this world is patriarchal and that we have been torn down by men
only to be brought up by men
because we are only half of what we could be
without the reliance on men.
Because we were born to be paired with men,
to be partners of men,
but I don’t see many co-sex business partners,
especially not many who are not sexually attracted to men.
Because any ‘business’ a woman has with a man
must mean that her lips have touched his cock
and that everything about her is loose
because she put herself in a situation so close to a man.
You can’t possibly be so close to a man and not be compelled by his low voice,
and deep pockets,
and yes that is a euphemism for things that women can’t talk about.
Because women must perform things mighty fine in the comforts of privacy,
but God forbid she say anything,
because only attention whores – don’t mind the pun – would say anything,
because only attention whores brag about their orgasms.
Actually, no, they don’t brag about their own pleasure – that would be selfish.
And there’s no power in a woman’s completion of anything except finishing schools
and maybe a knitted scarf.
The power is in giving him pleasure,
in going down on him because his body is far more needy than your own.
Because he likes grabbing onto your long hair even though it hurts sometimes,
but you can’t complain because you have a fucking cock in your mouth
and it would be rude to stop and demand something a little more from him.
Because the man works and labours all day long to put food on your table.
You can’t ask for anything more because he puts his long hours in for your pleasure,
so you don’t have to do anything but sit at home and look pretty on your sofa,
because that’s all you ever wanted to do anyway, right?
That’s all you ever wanted to be, right?
A pretty girl with long hair that waves perfectly over your breasts
that have to hide behind high-neck tops except when your husband demands to see them.
Because your breasts are for the sucking of babies and husbands; that is all.
Just like your hair justifies everything about you.
God forbid you cut it like a boy because only lesbians do that
and no one likes lesbians
because men aren’t attracted to lesbians
except of course when they’re making love to each other
in front of a camera for the men’s entertainment
but not their own.
And only lesbians with thick hips and full breasts can ever be displayed
because they have to make up for their lack of femininity.
Only lesbians with fleek makeup and curled hair can ever be accepted
because then at least men can fantasize about them
because their appearance is a given right for men to masturbate to in their dorm rooms
whilst they pretend to study while going to strip clubs with frat brothers
whilst the strippers pretend to be interested to make money to pay for their degrees.
Look at yourself.
Who are you?
I know you can’t define it so let me tell you:
you are not an empty vessel filled only by the fluids of your ex lovers.
You are not a standard to be upheld.
You are not an advertisement as much as CoverGirl and Urban Decay say you are,
because nobody truly interested in your well-being would tell you to Cover up your Girlhood
lest you Decay in the patronizing Urban life
where every building looks the same and you’re supposed to look the same –
but not TOO the same because then you’d be boring
and then no man would want to date you –
and yes, that’s another euphemism.
I watched him look at the long locks whipping through the air
like some erotic bondage scene from a movie I need not mention
because even that is a poor representation of a woman’s power in any given situation
because women aren’t supposed to have power.
Trust me, I learned something from Mulan,
and that’s if you cut your hair to look like a boy,
you only have power if you act like a boy,
if you convince people you are a boy,
because only boys have power.
But I didn’t become a woman by convincing people I was a boy.
I didn’t become a woman by growing my hair out long and wavy and voluminous
using TRESemmé products or by wearing Maybelline mascara to make my eyelashes look longer.
I didn’t become a woman because society told me that’s what I was born to be
and so I have to follow steps a, b, c, and d to STAY a woman.
I didn’t become a woman when I lost my virginity to a man
and I didn’t become a woman when I had my first period.
Verily I say unto you I never became a woman,
because ‘womanhood’ is not a status to achieve or an award for those
who do things the ‘right way’,
the way that is most sexually appetizing to the lions of the Colosseum,
but let’s not bring Daisy Miller into this phenomenon.
I am a man with a womb – and now you will protest because that’s not flattering or sexy.
But it’s true,
and my ability to reproduce should not lessen the amount I get paid
or the way I get hired
or the things I should say
or the tattoos I should get
or the level of ‘slut’ that I should uphold and withhold.
It definitely does not justify the length of my hair
because that doesn’t measure the length of my ambitions –
and yes, I have ambitions.
I am a woman with ambitions,
so don’t ask for a portrait of me
because I can’t stand sitting in one posture for very long,
not to mention the corset that cinches at my waste and itches every two seconds.
Define me by the words I write and the poets I read,
because my mind is going a mile a minute and all you can think about is my hair.