Heavy Metal Hair
by Naomi Bess Leimsider

 
All I want are devil horns and a head banged head full of matted animal hair, tangled thick
to the scalp. Aerosol spray mists, drips, sticks in the back of my throat. The dense growth
of heavy metal heyday hair works my small girl fingers hard: parting, extending, ratting it up.
If I form the sign of the horns over my luminous halo of layered high volume, it will only bring
me closer to the devil, but if I drink from eye cups and wear a precious amulet, I will prevent
the force of nature that is the evil eye. For it seems I’ve glommed on to devil things.

Flash me the devil sign because horns up is the way to ward off the shape shift that occurs in
empty spaces. If I cut my hair, I abandon this strange land in favor of supposedly nicer things.
If I cut my hair, I will miss the devil energy, endless hidden messages gleaned from the record
machine, and the big bad drama of metal boys, headcases all, and so, so hard to suss out. If I cut
my hair, I will lose the interwoven body of it, the tight and twisted knot of it, in favor of visions,
superstition, knocking on hard places to keep the devil at bay, with nothing real ever resolved.

I will be gone a long time before they dig me up, play with my rotted hair like a doll. Reconstruct
my knotted-up head, brush a hundred shiny strokes through strands stubbornly threaded into
a teased whole until my hair is stick straight, liquid soft. If I raise the horns, go fingers up, I will
be at the edge of beckoning, but if I put my overworked fingers to better use, believe in eye
charms, the talisman, my flat open hand, I will be saved. Oh, I get it now: wear nice hair, count
small blessings, or fall for the devil. But I am allowed to want things, so while I can I have at it.