The Life from my Hair

It had been several days, maybe a week since I last washed my hair. The one bucket of semi-lukewarm water at the last two hotels was only adequate for essential bathing. Which meant my hair had to wait. Run a wet comb through it, style it into place and call it good. With each passing day the styling was becoming easier; dust and sweat make for a potent hair gel.

Today was the day; there was sufficient hot water to wash my hair! Brilliant tiny, steamy droplets bounced off the surface of my coated tangled tresses. While working the water through the snarled mass, the eyes of a turbaned man appeared. Followed by a wandering, horned cow blocking traffic. And then children wanting to shake my hand and inquire about my name and country. Women freely smiling. Or lightly scoffing. Depending on the city. Smiling in Bundi. Stern stares other places. Spiky-haired boars rooting through mounds of garbage. Along with several cows, long-necked white birds, dogs and their puppies. Monkeys swinging from tree to fortress wall. Dark alleys winding into the night. Birds swooping overhead. Pigeons cooing. Men ogling. A motorcycle transporting an entire family whizzing by. Starry skies unobscured by city lights. All of it there, in my hair, coming out as the water penetrated deeply. Released bit-by-bit. Birds flying out. Shooting stars. Night turning into day. Shaking it loose. Washing it free. The life from my hair.