I was eating egg-drop soup when a nest of hair appeared in my bowl. Mostly I wore it loose against my hips, a crone’s silver-threaded shawl, an old woman’s protest banner. Sometimes I braided it, let it swing down my back like a hangman’s rope. My hair too held memory, synapses sparking when I brushed it: the memory of a lover’s palm, of my grandmother’s beveled mirror, of the holy incense that scented my prayers. Strands broke through my scalp as if neurons dense with memory were escaping from my brain. Released from its pins, my hair grew and grew.
My hair jumped to freedom, crashed like river-water against the jagged rocks of my spine.
I was a middle woman croning into olden age when I let loose the coil of hair humped againstèmy nape.
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