Saviours with Razors, by Penny-Anne Beaudoin, 6/6
Conclusion
Fair tresses man’s imperial race ensnare
And beauty draws us with a single hair.
(Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, 1714)
In fairy tales, hair speaks.
It says, I’m beautiful, I’m good, I’m pure. It says, I’m exotic, I’m powerful, beware! It says, I’m old, I’m powerless, let me in. It says, I have sinned, I have fallen, I’ve betrayed you. It says, I’m young, I’m trustworthy, you’re safe with me.
And we recognize this language, and can’t help but respond to it with a great involuntary leap of our hearts because we know, in some mysterious way, from a whisper to a shout, bound and loosed, in colours light and dark, in length, in power, and in imagination, the language of hair is the language of love.
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