pelo: a pathetic fallacy:

I see my hair in the mirror and of late it reminds me more and more of my grandmother's. My hair has been a stubborn, ascetic thing; thin, nearly bodiless, of indeterminate color--blonde, brown, red, gold--it refuses to take artificial colors. It dislikes artificial stylings, unraveling back to the limp hay mow that is its neutral home.
Of late my hair reminds me more and more of my grandmother's, in all its frizziness, and not as a barometer. Humidity intensifies everything; it is the alcohol of every season. Winter bites harder, even as it preserves the living body, cracking the skin less but freezing it more. Spring and fall are more full of their respective smells, accelerated in their respective actions. Summer, unbearable to me in its heat, is all the more unbearable with humidity. With high humidity I begin to languish around 75 degrees Fahrenheit and ooze into complete immobility around 80. However, no matter the season, my hair loves humidity, coming to life, springing into a shape, feeling vital with possibility and hope instead of limply waiting for the baler and hayloft.
My grandmother's hair is something else altogether. Her hair is as effective as she, all economy and readiness, made for work, made for scrubbing and scouring. At length it flows with roiling waves, no matter the weather. Kept short it rolls up sleeves, high above the elbows, and looks for a job. Her hair understands finance and makes it work for her. Her hair throws the deadbeat out on his ear and owns the room. Her hair dares you to oppress and defeats oppression before the thought has coalesced.
Of late my hair has stood on end a little, particularly at the prow. As the hairline recedes it takes issue with its circumstances and demands its birthright, takes a stand even as it loosens its grip. My hair will die fighting, strip itself into a machine set against the tyranny of time and excess, vanity and injustice and anything else you've got.
Someday, God willing, my hair will turn gray, a half-naked badger of bristles as strong and fearless as the hair of my foremothers. My mother and her sisters, are well on their way, angry, silver brush-heads defiantly resurfacing from chemotherapy, daring foolhardy men to caress steel wool, lacerating their hands at every point of contact. We are hard people who grow sharp where we should be soft.