Divided by something trivial

I’m divided by something trivial. Stuck between daring and desirable. I long for locks that cascade down my back. Hair woven into braids or piled on my head. The soft floral scent and silkiness after a wash. The wild salty mane from playing in the sea and basking in the sun. But I remember the days of liberation. When the wind’s gusts didn’t tangle or tousle my hair into Mission Impossible for my comb. When the breeze tickled my scalp through the velvet millimeters of length. A sense of unbinding that could only come from shedding a curtain of vanity and protection. It’s funny how it defines us. How it gives me a sense of identity and validation based on the shine or the length or its cooperation with my styling attempts. It’s so temporary and so inconsequential, and yet here I am: divided by something trivial.