Asymmetrical strands of second-grade hair 
clumped underneath a 
braided plastic bag, my white scalp 
smothered in mayonnaise. Mother 
combs through, plucking out lice 
one by one with 
deft pizzicato, their vibrating bodies crushed 
by fingernails, full of blood. Like
earthworms emerging on damp sidewalks 
after rain, my split ends hiss with 
forked tongues, tiny snakes tempting 
the bathroom scissor snips. 
Grease threatens to clog the drain 
of our teal tiled bathtub, so I 
hairpin back my insecurity into 
a ballerina’s bunned halo,
inventing a version of myself where hair 
falls into place like dominoes,  
joking that my fishtail braid looks like the wheat 
in the Caucasus Mountains with 
knots too tangled to plow through. I can no longer 
brush your hair. I am at a 
loss. Mother used to make us stand 
back to back to 
measure our spines and our shoulders, 
and you complained, 
noticing that my hair gave me 
an extra inch. 
Oil pools on your head, coconut, from the local 
organic grocery store, said to
possess healing properties. Your beautiful hair,
mother mourns in a
quadrangled plane of grief, the bald chemical
cut creates a juxtaposed
reminder of your youth, that you love
Stevie Nicks and singing “Edge of
Seventeen” while teetering on the precipice, 
gambling in a game of
tug-of-war with your own body, now 
hollowed, holding on with each 
undulation of the IV tubing. 
You struggle to stay
vertical, each breath like needles,
tendrils sewn into skin.
When mother withers with the news, I feel pulled 
back as if by my hair.
X-rays determine the solid mass 
of tissue in your 
yawning cavity, each hour yearns a year. 
Yet, as the illness reaches its 
zenith, hair is the item of least significance.