The Hair Poem: a Haibun | Andy Winter
I gouge a pumpkin, rub its entrails around my lips & chin. Its orange blood conceals all that’s purple & blue. This is an ancient ritual, passed down through generations of witches. How to trick the light – the bane of witches. Light that is harsh, light that is natural. Light that exposes the slightest fuzz of a peach. The shadow of unwanted growth. The chinks in glamour. Enough to make a witch wobble in her heels.
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Every two weeks, I pay for someone to inject beams of light into my face. We use aloe vera in our rituals now. We have mechanical teeth that plucks out the deepest darkest secrets. Modern spells for modern shapeshifters.
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What does epilation have in common with translation? Something is removed, something gets lost. Vellum into voice, coarse into smooth, root into air.
I like my men clean-shaven, jawlines smooth & sharp. I wonder if I’m attracted to such features because I suffered so much to attain them.
Every three months, I sculpt my brows with tweezer & thread. There is a certain pleasure in the way wax plucks away the traces of puberty. Past a certain point, I stopped feeling—
About the Author:
Andy Winter (they/them/she/her) is a non-binary trans-femme ice goddess from the sunny city of Singapore. Their works have appeared in adda, beestung, SAND, Stellium, and Strange Horizons amongst others. They were a ’22 Lambda Literary Poetry Fellow. Find them chilling at https://whispersinwinter.wordpress.com/