Writing Prompt 5

Welcome to the fifth day of our 30/30!

Your prompt today is:


Describe a memory of someone brushing your hair as a child.
Alternatively, write an ode to your hair.



Image credit www.cliparts.co
Guidelines, if you want them:

  • Posting your response is not required
  • Feel free to post your response   🙂
  • This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
  • While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
  • Tips & encouragement are here


  1. // ode to my hair
    hair, locks, tresses, mane,/my reason for vanity,/
    you frame my face, my being,/my personality, you run amuck,/
    paint my mirror/ with your abundance,/
    your lack of direction,/ you do as you will,/
    ravage the eyes of men,/ you run from the root,
    startle from the shoot,/ none of that glossy/
    salon straight coiffed/ look for you, oh no,/
    you stand out, you bedhead/, tousled, windswept
    in waves,/ rebellious, rabble-rouser,/ rambunctious,
    something he grabs onto,/passionately/ but cannot tame./
    calm you with scented oils i cannot,/ you wild creature/
    you auburn pixie of luminosity,/ full of surprises,/ you bounce
    with the energy /of a thousand suns, /unpredictably tangled/
    in my fingers,/ you withstand my moods,/ as i color, chop, blow-dry/
    you to glory,/ put you through avatars/ you never imagine,/ you makeover
    scapegoat./ for a dead cell/ you do pretty well/ filling coffers/ of many an accented stylist/
    to keratin or not/ is the hair-raising question/
    the rest is just / a tease.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: #NationalPoetryMonth’16 Round-up (Day 5 ) | Bonespark~

  3. What I Want When I Get a Haircut

    What I want when I get a haircut
    is to become someone else—
    younger. . thinner. . . happier.
    I dream of heavy blonde bangs
    framing and enlarging large blue
    eyes, still, perhaps, my best feature.
    Yet as soon as my haircutter etches
    a precise part on white skin-bone
    and scissors off hair to eyebrows,
    I suddenly remember what
    I don’t like about me in bangs.
    My hair isn’t thick, it’s thin;
    wispy bangs require daily
    shampoos, constant combing.
    They’ll grow out, he says, seeing
    my mirrored disappointment.
    But I also remember savagely
    pinning to the side strands too long
    for bangs, too short for anything else.
    Driving home I berate myself
    for falling headlong once again into
    the abyss between fantasy and reality.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. After big sister’s lush dark curls
    mother despaired of my pale
    fine flyaway straight hair
    not enough heft for braids
    not enough docility for freedom

    She settled on whiskbrooms
    or so we called them
    mini pony tail under each ear
    out of my face / out of the way
    out of any idea of pretty

    Liked by 1 person

  5. 30/30 Day 5

    a hair braiding

    me, just past eleven, already using
    store bought pads and still in braids.

    me, on the floor, legs crossed, hands
    in lap. head bobbing here, there, while

    she, my mom, nineteen years older than
    me, sits on a chair with my head between

    her legs, combs, brushes and parts my hair,
    while i feel the tug and push of her hands.

    she makes square-box sections across my
    head. she plaits into three part braids.

    one braid on top. one on each side.
    four in the back of my head, just so.

    she makes conversation with her daughter,
    me. she tells me that Lorraine, our

    young neighbor next door, who is
    a few years older than me, is fast.

    she warns me that Lorraine is so fast,
    she knows how not to get caught. me,

    thinking, caught doing what? she, still
    plating my hair and never tells me. she

    just warns me not to do what Lorraine
    is doing, cause i am not as smart as

    Lorraine and will get caught. me, still
    wonder what Lorraine will get caught at.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I brushed my granddaughters’ hair this morning.
    The older was having rock-n-roll day at school,
    she wanted a sideways ponytail;
    the younger wanted the same hair as her sister.
    The older said that feels good as the comb gathered up her hair,
    the brushing done in advance of the styling;
    the younger said ouch, but persevered.
    I explained that I would have to pull tight for the pony to stay in well,
    the older understood, the younger persevered.
    Both knew I had the experience of grooming
    three daughters including their mom.
    I reminisced with the younger that my mom
    would have watered down all the straggling hairs.
    I have always claimed that the real test of self-assurance
    would be to shave my head, remove the focus of so much attention.
    I have not done that, not because I lack self-assurance,
    but because there is something in the stroke of brush and comb,
    a lineage of joy and pain in those strands of hair
    touched, pulled, teased, braided
    that is indeed the strength that Samson surrendered.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. When I was a little girl, I would lay back in my warm
    bath water, swirling my long blond hair left to right
    like a mermaid. Momma would come with the
    ivory soap, scrubbing my scalp with her nails,
    kneading with her knuckles, shaking my head like an
    agitator in a washing machine. With one
    more rinse, I would rise, wrap my towel like a regal
    cloak, fashion my pink turban about my head, and don
    my paisley nightgown. For a few moments, I
    was an Indian princess. I would then ascend
    to my throne while Momma, bracing her hand against
    my head, raked through the strands with a comb,
    scraping through the knots, me, wincing back to reality
    as my head was yanked back with each thrust. And when all was
    said and done, Momma would lay down on
    her pillow and ask me to run my fingers gently through
    her hair while she dozed, because it felt so good.

    Liked by 1 person

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