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Pretty Hair

By @MeaningfulMee

Pretty Hair

Pretty Hair.

She was about twelve.

It was a school morning,

She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror.

Her mam was brushing her hair with care.

Beautiful braids of culture.


That sat in twists around her head.

Her mam continued,

Then the job was done. 

Her mam twirled a braid around her finger,

Placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders,

Kissed her forehead and told her how beautiful she was.

Within and without,

She never left that part out.


She went to school.

And the girls they whisper,

About the colour of her skin.

And the boys they chackled,

At the sight of her hair.

As she walked through the corridors.

She held her head low.

An older girl,

 she was watching,

Seeing it unfold.

That little girl slowing but surely implode.

So she spoke,

Her voice was sweet like honey.

Her voice was soft like cotton balls.

Her words were the cherry on top.

“Ay, sweetheart!”

The little girl looked up.

“Your hair is amazing. So thick and lush”

A smile lit up her face,

She walked along.

The compliment playing in her head like a song.

On repeat. 

She sat silently in her seat,

And the girls still whispered.

The boys still chackled.

She still cared,

Just a tiny little bit less.

She sat at the back of the class,

Twisting her hair around her finger.


“I kinda do have pretty hair”

Smiling out the window.

Everything seemed a little less pointless now.

And the day continued.

It was pretty normal.

Pretty average.

But just a tiny little bit better,

For the girl with the pretty hair.

The bell rang and she walked back down the corridor.

Which seemed just a little bit shorter,

Then it had before.

She saw the older girl.

Gave her a wide-eyed smile.

Then she strolled back home.

Stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

Smiling at the girl that looked back at her.

Rubbing her hands along her braids,

Then she stopped.

After dinner,

 she sat on her bed.

She picked up her phone.

Got one for her last birthday,

Mam said since she was going into secondary school,

She’d need one.

She opens up Instagram.

Scrolling through her fed.

Then she sees this picture.

Of this girl.

She has a couple of hundred k followers. 

She’s about eighteen.

Been using social media since she was little,

So she knows her way around photoshop.


 this little girl is looking.

Staring at every inch of the pixels on the screen.

Blue light changing her youthful state of mind,

To blind.

Blind to anything other than,

Stereotypical beauty.

She looks at the comments.

They’re telling the girl she has pretty hair.

And she does.

Flat ironed, bleached blonde locks.

Hair down to her ass, 

Which is getting equally as many comments.

She plays with her hair again.

Looking at the braids.

She frowns.

She puts her phone down.

Walks out of her room.

Into the bathroom.

Stands in front of the mirror.

A tear falls down her face.

A frown sits.

She mutters underneath her breath.

“My hair is not straight like hers.”

She ties her hair behind her ears,

Hidden within a messy bun.

She whispers.

“My hair is black, her’s is blonde.”

She put her hands by her side.

“Her hair is much prettier, 

much prettier than mine will ever be.”

She sighs and utters,

“She is pretty”

Through the mind of corrupted eyes,

She sighs.

“She is much prettier, 

much prettier than,

 I’ll ever be

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