My mother never really did my hair.

My mother never really did my hair.
Two pigtails, nice and tight. That was my usual.
One thick plait when I felt especially adventurous.
I had hair that reached my waist.
At 10, my hair was half of my 4 feet stature.
So the pigtails.

My mother never really did my hair.
She never really played around.
She never really did a French braid or a waterfall plait.
Just like my education system wouldn't let me drop a science subject to study psychology.
She stuck to the two pigtails and so I stuck to science.

My mother never really did my hair.
And once I got it cut, I think it was the 9th grade, it became a staple ponytail.
My baby hair interfered and the ponytail looked ridiculous.
But years later at 19, when I was away from home for 6 weeks, it made me realise that change in every form, is tough and ridiculous to accept.

My mother never really did my hair.
But she did teach me how to roll it up into the nice working-class-lady-bun.
She did teach me that no matter what ice cream flavour my society served to me, it was completely okay if I chose another and enjoyed it.
Despite whatever backlash my choices made me liable for receiving.
That, even if I were expected to stay at home and tend to the house, my working-class-lady-bun was one step towards wanting my own career and life.

My mother never really did my hair, but in the pigtails, the plait and the bun, she helped me do life.

Slice of you

There is a limit-less sea, between your lips. It is endless and it is beautiful. Every time you laugh during speech, this sea seems more overpowering to me, gaping at me, swallowing everything around it. I hope you catch me staring, and probably realize the magic that you hold, between the one part of your body that you categorize as completely non-monumental.
The boundaries to that space, I want to run a finger across them. Make that walk. I want my finger to trace where the pink of your lip dissolves into the wheat of your skin.
You are ostensibly unaware about my affection, about how I feel that the space between your lips, might be by the panacea to the poison that the bile in my liver fills me up with.
Nirvana might lie just there in that darkness, but this struggle is miserable. I analyze each action and reaction that you make, expecting so much and yet so little. With each accidental eye contact, I catch myself wishing for you to be entrapped by the depth of my eyes in the same innocent way in which the infinite expanse between your jaws has me reduced to a limb-less spectator.

Tomorrow morning, I might have forgotten this paradise of sensation and feeling that you have, unknowingly taken me to, today.
Tomorrow I might just find faults in your teeth structure, but today I wish to roll around in the gloriousness of your mouth.