“You look better with your hair straight”,
Said she.
I waited for the familiar pinch
Of ugly. Self-loathing.

“Much better”,
Said she,
for added emphasis.

I sighed a little and smiled,
The gentle irony present
In our sacred swing
From child, to daughter
To mother, to crone.

My hair, curling out of sheer joy,
At simply being itself, again.

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