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60 Hair Salon My hair is a swamp of creamy dye, with highlights under neat foil folds. My face in the mirror is a thickening thing, and hard. I scratch my chest with my mother’s hand. The fine bones on its back belie the thick squareness of my boere palms. Its round nails have always resisted femininity: these are hands for making and mucking, for hefting and holding – for drawing weary heads against this chest I now scratch with a mother’s aging hands. 61 The mirror’s gaze is censure and approbation: I am scarred shins and calloused shoulders. The salon trance music plays against my body’s struggle. Stylists in heels and skirts murmur the importance of hair. I stretch my neck to unfold the skin and remember: I am here to grasp at something. Salvation and a root tint. Relative importance is no longer a question. Each is the other. ...

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