Listen to Stella Wu read her poem:
The stronger the hair dye smells, the more toxic,
Ma says, but they are also the most effective.
The first time I dyed her hair, she told me to wear a mask
(I learned to suffocate my words long before this pandemic
began). Ma hands me sheeted plastic one-size-fits-all gloves
from the box. Don’t touch directly—there are chemicals,
artificial—will kill you, Ma lectures. I secure the gloves
to my wrist with a frizzled hair tie.
Ma says, but they are also the most effective.
The first time I dyed her hair, she told me to wear a mask
(I learned to suffocate my words long before this pandemic
began). Ma hands me sheeted plastic one-size-fits-all gloves
from the box. Don’t touch directly—there are chemicals,
artificial—will kill you, Ma lectures. I secure the gloves
to my wrist with a frizzled hair tie.
Everything has to do with hair. I part Ma’s life story down the middle,
every memory stored in a thin follicle. My brush dissects her
slick-back black hair to expose ugly white. Minutes pass in labored silence.
You missed a spot.
Ma’s eyes glance at me. With her head held in place, pupils angular, she looks
angry.
Oh. Sorry.
Even when black has already suffocated her scalp, I swallow any protest
and do as I am told. I don’t think about how this is the first time
Ma has spoken to me since yesterday, after our ears shattered in the reverbs of
insults
and we spat curses from mouths of foaming spit—there’s the white again.
every memory stored in a thin follicle. My brush dissects her
slick-back black hair to expose ugly white. Minutes pass in labored silence.
You missed a spot.
Ma’s eyes glance at me. With her head held in place, pupils angular, she looks
angry.
Oh. Sorry.
Even when black has already suffocated her scalp, I swallow any protest
and do as I am told. I don’t think about how this is the first time
Ma has spoken to me since yesterday, after our ears shattered in the reverbs of
insults
and we spat curses from mouths of foaming spit—there’s the white again.
With my plastic palette in hand I am a history doctor. I section
another sheet of hair, examine a broken past—dead hair—
and cure a new truth over the old. Tell myself that white hair is a symbol
of life and not an eviction notice from Earth. And I don’t think
about how Ma said I wasn’t her daughter last night. Said she can stop loving me.
another sheet of hair, examine a broken past—dead hair—
and cure a new truth over the old. Tell myself that white hair is a symbol
of life and not an eviction notice from Earth. And I don’t think
about how Ma said I wasn’t her daughter last night. Said she can stop loving me.
Instead I remember how the ends of her hair were not naturally dark—
just leftover color from the last time we did this. How long
since her entire head started growing white lies? This is why I think
dyeing hair is lying. They even share the same y, as if asking people:
Why do you even try?
The same ugly truth will grow out. Time and time again.
Truth is whatever color I paint it to be, and Ma wants it to be
black. So I cover our past with dye. I swallow our broken fight with dye,
blind her daggered glare with dye, deny us forgiveness with dye—
this dye dyes dying lies—everything has to do with hair.
just leftover color from the last time we did this. How long
since her entire head started growing white lies? This is why I think
dyeing hair is lying. They even share the same y, as if asking people:
Why do you even try?
The same ugly truth will grow out. Time and time again.
Truth is whatever color I paint it to be, and Ma wants it to be
black. So I cover our past with dye. I swallow our broken fight with dye,
blind her daggered glare with dye, deny us forgiveness with dye—
this dye dyes dying lies—everything has to do with hair.
Revive. Ma helps me wash away the black cream from the
brush. Her hair is in a plastic cap so the color can sink into our roots.
We run our hands under hot water, let the ink dilute and fade into skin.
Then I strip the brush of this coverup, a smothering massacre.
Its white bristles resurface. Prick my fingertips. For a second I wish
all dye can be lifted so easily. (but then, what’s the purpose of lying?)
Ma and I sit in front of the TV for another twenty-three minutes before
the color settles. She asks me what I want for lunch. I say Ma’s noodles. She smiles.
We laugh. When she goes to rinse off her hair, the dye stays. I tell her
she looks ten years younger—as if the last ten years didn’t happen.
Ma chuckles and says: The stronger the hair dye, the more effective.
brush. Her hair is in a plastic cap so the color can sink into our roots.
We run our hands under hot water, let the ink dilute and fade into skin.
Then I strip the brush of this coverup, a smothering massacre.
Its white bristles resurface. Prick my fingertips. For a second I wish
all dye can be lifted so easily. (but then, what’s the purpose of lying?)
Ma and I sit in front of the TV for another twenty-three minutes before
the color settles. She asks me what I want for lunch. I say Ma’s noodles. She smiles.
We laugh. When she goes to rinse off her hair, the dye stays. I tell her
she looks ten years younger—as if the last ten years didn’t happen.
Ma chuckles and says: The stronger the hair dye, the more effective.
I think what she doesn’t say:
It is also the most toxic.
It is also the most toxic.
Read on . .
