A Tale of Hair Knots

A TALE OF HAIR KNOTS

She barely ties her hair or pulls it together into a knot or a bun.
It prefers the taste of liberty, sometimes kissing the breeze until it dries. 
As whimsical as it can be, 
or sometimes it's ideally set on a shoulder; cascading.

It mirrors the river that flows at will; one uncontrollably ferocious river,
evoking constructed sensuality and stigma alike. 
Like the same river whose fervour is captured by civilisation in dams, 
a civilisation whose women are confined to four walls.
So, it refuses to be kept, on their face in a rebellious act.

She fears the tangled ones though, 
stubborn knots like those inevitable questions put forth to women who set to fly.
But the quest to undo them is perhaps life; 
life that women live in their quest to be seen.
Should the mess be kept in an updo?
Because it's an absolute fear if someday she finds someone untangling those tousled ties, 
while wrapping her in all sorts of bindings.

Like that woman, forever tending the furnace that keeps and sustains her home,
sweat of whose work would deny the hair to touch the nape.
So in a perpetual bun, her hair remains, the way she is stuck to flawed familial bargains. 
Whether tied or untied, kept or unkept, 
for her, it's a constant elopement to stay unattached from the old skeleton of woman-being,
and if free, it always escapes the arms of new bindings.