Natural Hair Wig Braids and Knots
Oh, gaze upon the towering height,
A gravity-defying sight!
A masterpiece of horse and hair,
Held high upon the fabled stair.
No paltry scalp, no dull decree,
But architectural vanity!
From ancient Egypt’s royal reign,
To Versailles’ weeping, powdered pane,
The wig proclaims: “I own this space,
Regardless of my naked face!”
With scents of lavender and starch,
It marches past the swelling arc,
Concealing lice and graying dead,
A kingdom perched upon a head.
But look below the braided lace,
To where the scalp declares its case.
The fateful knot, the twisted rue,
Demanding praise and tribute due.
The tender-headed, weary plait,
A marathon of tug and wait.
With grease and ribbons woven tight,
It keeps the secrets of the night.
Yet, when the morning sun takes hold,
The tragedy of hair unfolds.
Flyaway, an epic old bag,
The dreaded, knotted, tangled shag.
A thousand hours at the drink,
To make a girl just pause and think:
“Why must this natural cyanide,
Cause every follicle to hide?”
So off it comes, the heavy plait,
Exchanging all for synthetic faith.
The wig is donned, the knot is fed,
A better, glued, and flawless head!
No frizz, no fuss, no morning dread,
Just instant “powder” in the spread.
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