Thursday, March 03, 2005
Medusa Reform?
I'm stuck between a car bumper and a brick wall. Over the past 2+ years I have had this itch to cut my locks. Now this feeling is familiar. I've had locks in my early 20's and cut them. That was about 10 years ago. So I now have about 10 years of hair and life on my domepiece. It's become a bit heavy. Anywhoo, 2 years ago I resolved the urge with a half ass decision to cut my hair at 30. Initially I was gonna do it on my 30th b-day. But that urge subsided.
Right now however, the scissors at this point seem to represent a crack pipe that's just calling me, they be calling me man. Now my daughter and my mother are also natty dreads. I helped to reform my mother about 4 yrs or so ago. My daughter had been locked since she wa about 1 and swung around and socked me one as I was doing her hair early one morning. So this urge I have is impaired by the comraderie I have with my mother and daughter. It's an interesting thing to be down here in the south and the 3 of us walk down a street. I'd even say it powerful the solidarity we share, the 3 generations of us.
But that feeling dows not subside my deep seeded desire to sheer the matted wool. I've been through a lot over the past 10 years. and its so interesting that I have actually come full circle in many ways, however much I've deviated from my path in the process. Every inch of every dread is a marker. It is a place I've lived or struggle I've overcome. Each one has their own identy and I gotta a mental map through the maze on my head. Every 3 inches or so there are memories of men I've dared to love. The ends are frayed renegade curls that refuse to be ignored amongst to toil of natty chaos. History is like lead buckshots wrapped in strands and folicles. My commitment wavers. Because I don't know that I want to be committed to the pain that lingers in the mirror. Trapped in tuffs escaping combs and the brush. When I let my hair down to hang in front of my eyes, sometimes I don't see free, rather rusty colored bars with but one key. In my expression of escaping the politrix through the expression of that which lay on my head, I've discovered a whole new set of policy upon these dreads. I think I'm FED - up. I thought this urge would pass within a month or a over time. But it keeps coming back like those heavy wet smacks in my face and drenched shirts proceeding showers. My roots are deep, but who talks about the tree. I want to be outstreched branches and leaves in the wind. But it seems I'm covered in 24/7 365 x 10 of dirt. 6 feet under hiding from the light (ness) of my bright tress'. I don't like this. So I hid the scissors. To protect fdate from haste. Cause I'm not at the point where I wouldn't look back and scowl in the mirror with regrets. My home grown catch 22. I'm stuck in the middle cause it aint right that my commitment waivers and I should cut them just for that fact. And then again I shouldn't cut them cause I still love them.
But hot damn, I really wanna muss'd up afro.
godspeed.
I'm stuck between a car bumper and a brick wall. Over the past 2+ years I have had this itch to cut my locks. Now this feeling is familiar. I've had locks in my early 20's and cut them. That was about 10 years ago. So I now have about 10 years of hair and life on my domepiece. It's become a bit heavy. Anywhoo, 2 years ago I resolved the urge with a half ass decision to cut my hair at 30. Initially I was gonna do it on my 30th b-day. But that urge subsided.
Right now however, the scissors at this point seem to represent a crack pipe that's just calling me, they be calling me man. Now my daughter and my mother are also natty dreads. I helped to reform my mother about 4 yrs or so ago. My daughter had been locked since she wa about 1 and swung around and socked me one as I was doing her hair early one morning. So this urge I have is impaired by the comraderie I have with my mother and daughter. It's an interesting thing to be down here in the south and the 3 of us walk down a street. I'd even say it powerful the solidarity we share, the 3 generations of us.
But that feeling dows not subside my deep seeded desire to sheer the matted wool. I've been through a lot over the past 10 years. and its so interesting that I have actually come full circle in many ways, however much I've deviated from my path in the process. Every inch of every dread is a marker. It is a place I've lived or struggle I've overcome. Each one has their own identy and I gotta a mental map through the maze on my head. Every 3 inches or so there are memories of men I've dared to love. The ends are frayed renegade curls that refuse to be ignored amongst to toil of natty chaos. History is like lead buckshots wrapped in strands and folicles. My commitment wavers. Because I don't know that I want to be committed to the pain that lingers in the mirror. Trapped in tuffs escaping combs and the brush. When I let my hair down to hang in front of my eyes, sometimes I don't see free, rather rusty colored bars with but one key. In my expression of escaping the politrix through the expression of that which lay on my head, I've discovered a whole new set of policy upon these dreads. I think I'm FED - up. I thought this urge would pass within a month or a over time. But it keeps coming back like those heavy wet smacks in my face and drenched shirts proceeding showers. My roots are deep, but who talks about the tree. I want to be outstreched branches and leaves in the wind. But it seems I'm covered in 24/7 365 x 10 of dirt. 6 feet under hiding from the light (ness) of my bright tress'. I don't like this. So I hid the scissors. To protect fdate from haste. Cause I'm not at the point where I wouldn't look back and scowl in the mirror with regrets. My home grown catch 22. I'm stuck in the middle cause it aint right that my commitment waivers and I should cut them just for that fact. And then again I shouldn't cut them cause I still love them.
But hot damn, I really wanna muss'd up afro.
godspeed.
