• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 02
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My family has a history of hair
that has a mind of its own.

Frizzes at the sight of a brush –
coarse and flyaway; makes you
a target for playground bulliness.

In the days of my youth, my hair
allowed me the gift of names.

How thankful I was to be baptised
in the spit of bullies, as they gobbed
Poodle! Sheep! Afro!

Once, at seven I was dragged
round the playground by my hair:
mop pulled at root; water-logged eyes.

Look, my knees are still bloody with gravel
from the yard, clumps of hair in their hands.