My paternal grandmother always had a brush,
And loads of hair products ready with her to tame my “unruly”, unkempt hair.
She would sit me down on my knees,
pull at my hair painfully until it got detangled,
then she would apply a lot of hair cream,
pull my hair back into a bun or braid it,
Until the curls were no longer visible.
I acted like I wasn’t disgusted, but I was disgusted!
I pretended I wasn't because I felt it would be shameful for me to be hurt when people judge my body and then turn around and judge your body!
In a perfect world, we’d love every body type.
I look at my old clothes—
which I wore only a handful of times—
And I feel frustrated.
I try them all on.
I squeeze my new chubby body into them,
But to no avail.
It’s an attempt to prove I still fit into them.
Fine, I just want to fit into any of them at least,
So my mind could be at ease.