Girlhood, or maybe not
︎︎︎ Tazha Chen
︎ Apr 19, 2025
Girl and I had locks that hung long.
We braided our hair into each others.
Melange-d chesnut and chocolate brown tendrils entangled into each twist and pull, from the little bathroom of a restaurant in Paris, through laughter that was like the ugly sister of a giggle.
The night before, Girl cries over a boy and I comb her locks as she sits shivering in the empty bathtub.
No sister is ugly after this.
The hot water lasts anytime from nowhere to never
So Girl opts for empty not cold while her hot tears retort irony onto her chest-hugged thighs, in the name of “it’s better to have loved and lost”
My locks are tied behind my back where I can’t see them anymore so as to not get in the way of my service.
My hair will find itself back there more and more often soon.
Girl’s hair is chocolate like mine, but only when damp and there’s a metaphor there, but I won’t indulge myself this time.
The strands stick to her back as I peel off each bundle.
It tangles and tugs like little strings of rubber, rejecting each pass through; I persist.
As the weeks go on, Girl combs her own hair and she makes me dinner with a grin but really she’s making herself dinner.
I express gratitude but come to feel that if Girl didn’t see her reflection in these plates, they’d remain empty
and somehow I can still feel her damp hair in my fingers
We braided our hair into each others.
Melange-d chesnut and chocolate brown tendrils entangled into each twist and pull, from the little bathroom of a restaurant in Paris, through laughter that was like the ugly sister of a giggle.
The night before, Girl cries over a boy and I comb her locks as she sits shivering in the empty bathtub.
No sister is ugly after this.
The hot water lasts anytime from nowhere to never
So Girl opts for empty not cold while her hot tears retort irony onto her chest-hugged thighs, in the name of “it’s better to have loved and lost”
My locks are tied behind my back where I can’t see them anymore so as to not get in the way of my service.
My hair will find itself back there more and more often soon.
Girl’s hair is chocolate like mine, but only when damp and there’s a metaphor there, but I won’t indulge myself this time.
The strands stick to her back as I peel off each bundle.
It tangles and tugs like little strings of rubber, rejecting each pass through; I persist.
As the weeks go on, Girl combs her own hair and she makes me dinner with a grin but really she’s making herself dinner.
I express gratitude but come to feel that if Girl didn’t see her reflection in these plates, they’d remain empty
and somehow I can still feel her damp hair in my fingers
Tazha Chen is from New York City.