Her curls waved and bounced in the wind,
In the sunlight they glistened with tinges of gold.
My mother’s hair was how I found her in a crowd,
She’d turn, confidently smile, that mane made her bold.
Mi Chascona, she nicknamed me,
I got my savage tresses from her.
Wearing them long, wild, and free
was such a cogent part of my identity.
Chascona basically means bed-head.
Entangled, tangled, tousled, messy mane.
Each sloppy curl and every rumpled thread
My pride, my-self, my legitimacy.
I vehemently refused to brush those strands
No way was I ok with losing any part of my beautae.
Finally I would agree to wearing hairbands,
Just to be able to see past those strands.
“Ay Mi Chascona,” Mi mamá would say,
Those knots and kinks are driving me crazy!
“Pero Maaaami,” I would say,
If I brush my curls they’ll go away.
I’m beautiful without being altered.
A manageable mane just isn’t me.
If I brush they’ll be slaughtered
Chascona is now part of my identity.