I’ve heard tales of a magic hairbrush. 

You find it in the aisle with the potions and wands.

It curls your identity as it straightens your hair. 

As your coils go away so does your pride. 

What are you trying to hide?

You thought you loved yourself but apparently not. 

The more your insecurity grows the more the brush gets hot. 

It burns your sense of self as it burns your hair. 

This is what you wanted but you no longer care. 

You run to the shower head as tears run down your face. 

The straight strands start to leave, curls taking their place. 

As your hair reverts so does your self-worth. 

The deep connection with your culture is rebirthed. 

But now you’re not seen as beautiful, 

And in the workplace not as fruitful. 

On the train, people stare. 

It’s not really fair. 

That hairbrush is cursed and now so are you. 

Damned if you don’t, damned if you do.