"Touch" by Anahita Kalianivala

Thin straggly curls. Left over after the whole thing had been picked. Pulled. Teased. Sprayed apart. 360 degrees of mocha frizz. Now only remnants. Of her conditioned. Moussed. Defrizzed hair.
Extending out like a halo, the afro puts a smile on her face and all those around her.

Few things worth feeling. One. Overcoming their initial shock and surprise. Two. Reveling together in sheer delight. Three. Acknowledging their extended arms asking to touch.
Not four: self-consciousness.

It all started on a relaxed evening at home as she brushed her fingers through her hair, idly preparing for bed. Twirling the loose coils at her temples. Pulling the tight springs at the nape of her neck. Then, in rebellion to the natural pattern, she shoved all five fingers into her bangs. She wriggled at the roots. She pulled forcefully forward. A glance in the mirror showed her a chunk of hair extending straight out from her forehead. While the other curls waited to be pulled out of line.

The same disequilibrium occurred naturally after a good night's rest. If she slept on her back, she woke up to a cool neck. And five extra inches of height. Hair flat at the back and vertical at the top. If she tossed and turned, she woke up Flavor of the Week. Hair parted at the ears like an ice cream cone. No matter the slumber, every morning her curls were called upwards to heaven, but lost the battle to gravity. Physical evidence of an immortal fight.

Only teeth of professional separation could help control the chaos. Usually a curly girl's worst nightmare, she held the wand between her fingers. Bristles peeled curls apart, loosening bonds of hair. Slowly they transformed from composed swirls to exploding sparks. Ignoring every request to abstain, pushing outward from the bubble: the daily life of restrain.

Few curls stayed. Intact. Product wound tightly. These. Kept her back. Kept her grounded. Bound to the former state of affairs. Shiny. Still. Tamed. Intangible. No one would touch. But worry. One moved strand. And the style is askew.
She only knew to how to obey: keep people away; maintain the dignity of perfect curls.

But the five inch radius...
The black glow. Encircling her face. Brave. Incandescent. Intrepid. Tangible. Made bets for neatness. Off. Made shooing away of fingers. Welcomed.
…She could be touched.