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This my hair, a wonderful gift that was selflessly passed on to me by the ancestors of my ancestors. It is extremely coarse. Its texture is like the tangled-up threads of an old, dry sisal rope. So it basically feels like strong confusion. Lice can’t survive in it. How will they walk around in there without machetes and power saws to clear their paths?
It can scrub clean a soot-stained pot, this hair. Because it is ‘hard’. Like times. It cannot even ‘catch’ simple blow dry. You cannot even romantically run your fingers through it. Those your fingers will just get trapped inside the hair and your arm will have to be amputated.
If I leave it ‘free’ for longer than 8 minutes, I will just have to shave it. Because for a comb to get into this hair then, I will have to pour 13 litres of water on it to soften it a little. Then swallow a few cartons of Panadol or take local anaesthesia before combing it. And when I comb it, everyone in the plot will hear it.
Chwaa! Chwaa! Chwaa!
“Ah, she’s combing her hair again.”
“It sounds as if she’s slashing it. Like grass.”
“What hardship. Can you hear her wincing?”
“Poor girl.”
“Poor comb.”
You can never comb it quietly. Or secretly. Those “chwaa” sounds will always be there. And they are loud.
I can’t even get something called ‘baby hair’. Even after using an entire factory of gel, those two little hairs at the edge of my hairline will still refuse to ‘sleep’.
But at least I can safely hide coins and airtime scratch cards in it without them falling down. It has powerful grip, this my hair.
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