To Sarah, From Your Hair
July 1993
Hehe. I feel discombobulated. You keep running and jumping and falling and laughing.
“Tag, you’re it!” you squeal before you pounce on the slide ahead.
Tangled up on your head and in your face, you push me back behind your ears with stubby little fingers.
Your mom will stick the plastic comb through my strands when we’re home; I’ll be good as new. Keep playing, I’m happy too.
January 1996
Not again. The gooey globs make me dry, too dry like a draught. You like to cut me down the middle and put me slick against your scalp, and then the end of me is tied with elastic. You call me “Pony Tail.” I don’t think that’s very nice.
I see my counterparts on the other girls at school, some are being treated the same. Oh well.
June 2001
Please, NO! Not again. Please not the iron. Anything but the iron! I was okay with the “gel.” Who invented this tortuous weapon? Why, Sarah?! Why!!!
October 2008
I’m dead. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Almost every day I get the iron, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. And they’ve only burned me hotter since last we spoke. I’m numb. The only thing I can do is not to feel.
…
June 2016
It’s been 30 days since you took the iron to me… I’ve been counting. I feel like I can relax a little and breathe. Not completely healed, but getting there. I still fear you will kill me again, but I’m hopeful. Hope is getting me through.
May 2017
I’m so joyful, I can’t help but spin around. Shiny ringlets falling from your scalp. I love you, Sarah. Let me continue to be me. Respect me. And I will respect you.

