A Pixie Cut by Abshaar Saeed
I sit in a radiant chamber with tube lights, many other lights
some dull and some ephemeral
like the different sets of troubles and triumphs
my heart skipped a beat
at every snip of stainless steel scissors
Stainless. Is there such a thing?
slivered hair descent like wilted petals
and auburn leaves
resting a while on my shoulders, procrastinating
Perhaps I can convince them
to stay a bit longer
Until the next date or my neighbour's wedding
So I will be saved from looking ridiculous
if the pixie cut doesn't work
like magic.
But the scissors, relentless as they should be
Impatient as they should be, return to their work
My hair accepted its fate and quietly slipped away.
Making way for an unpopular experiment.
The remaining hair, messy and exasperated
from the uncertainty of fate,
but the dispute is not yet over
They will now be clothed
in pungent bottles of ammonia
and ribbons of aluminium
An armour enough against the ever-changing world.
Outside, autumn has already begun;
Inside, a brunette metamorphosed into an Auburn
While the dye deepens, past stances shrink away
the foil unfurls; the first flag of the independence
of a newly declared sovereignty
The wings grow from my back
while the water rinses excess pigment,
obligations glow into feathers.
At last, I stand, like an incarnation of autumn
swirling a wand and twirling with the wind
I am remade into an enchanted pixie.
I hold my truth on my scalp by Antara Vashistha
Literature of
the post-modern, post-colonial world
is a lot about reclaiming
and rewriting,
and revisiting the history
to discern if things happened the way they do.
Once I fell in love
with a lawyer
who taught me to
keep my truth close,
and my evidence closer,
when our ways parted
my hands felt a little too heavy,
carrying reality, emails, and screenshots,
corroborating the time we spent together,
bound by the baggage,
I did not even realize
when love fell out of me
like an old crumpled paper,
lint of memories,
All I remembered was to keep my truth,
and rewrite our story as my will.
Over the years,
I have had a lot of time to grow and glow,
At seven, I was the curly-haired maniac
nicknamed Maggi and Noodles of all forms,
I grew to be a witch from Azkaban,
hiding in bathroom stalls
and burning my hair through
cheap iron and fancy oils.
It was six and a half years ago,
that I finally forgave myself
for something I had no control over,
turning off my ears to the
Like of hairdressers
complaining curls are too much
a nuisance to
be loved properly.
I remember I took it personally
when the red of my
curls turned brown,
and the blue never showed up,
I burnt my neck
with bleach bought from my third salary,
giving a chance to
semi-permanence
I still remember the
Pink that shone,
then purple,
and Orange,
Even red.
I was the rainbow
who reclaimed her hair,
Today, I hold my truth
on my scalp,
smelling of coconut oil
and over-priced conditioners,
flipping both hair and fingers
to those who
think
they have
a
say,
it
is quite simple
isn't it,
who
would rather not
be
Bellatrix.
The metaphysical reset button by Mohua Chakraborty
It's easy to grow into a face
that wants to nod in shame
so strong in my memory
this girl so weak
forgets to wash the dishes
spits latex pools in disobedience
the ocean bed lacks pigments
and sulphur sings to the leftover
utopian hands smell of vinyl graves
but do they accept malfunctions?
now that the hair locks
swing like apologies
separated at extremes
from middle partition
still slanting the
boundaries of East Bengal
hopeful of a common
currency choir
who knew the resting potential
of one's mirth would dissolve
within the colour of other's sins
Meanwhile silicone
doused off in
shimmery distress
And botox lingers
like half lit cigarette
Appearance flirts in
mortal undertone
just when gray stories
decompose over the skull
hungry of childhood
blooming into a headache
the fumes of which
smothers rusted fingernails
and the water content is
as reasonable as a stranger
birthing in little bubbles
and dying of extra foam
Not that it's easier to
develop a brain
in sweet dreams
afterall the more
bitter the false
the more integrate
burns gift the media coverage
trembling in matte finish
which plagued Rapunzel
with a bad acne
and she switched
those mouths with
a haircut dipping
brunette into browns