Sore Fingers

At night my long hair was wrapped
in rags -- pristine strips
of thick white cloth.
Sore fingers, my mother called them.
My unruly curls bandaged
into six stiff sore fingers,
to be unravelled in the morning
to reveal
shiny ringlets
ready
to be tied in bunches
with broad, bright, bias cut ribbons.
I wanted plaits.
All the heroines
in my childhood
books had plaits
I dreamt about plaits
fantasised about plaits.
No more sore fingers.
I wanted plaits.
Sometimes I untied the ringlets,
to my mother's displeasure,
and made untidy, unsuccessful plaits.
Plaits would ruin my hair, my mother said.
Would spoil its natural curl,
destroy it
in some
way
never
specified.
I didn’t care.
I hated ringlets.
I hated sore fingers.
I wanted plaits.