Analogy
I have brushed my hair for the first time in years. What chaotic havoc the curls have created, it has been a war with Medusa’s snakes; they have a mind of their own, those locks.
No I correct myself; they are coils but with individual minds like an octopus and all at war against me.
I say—go there! I say—nay, not to the left, wave right—once twice then get the iron and guess what? It is tougher than even heat the mulatto beanfield war of flames
After two weeks at war, on the battlefield I find once the overgrown Rosamond sleeping beauty is unearthed
brush, brush brush grandma always used to say—one hundred strokes a night, she insisted and there was so much more even then to contend with as it reached mid thigh
bend forward, brush down and count
stand up and there you see the rays of the sun dance like a lion’s mane around my face and static —after which I have stretched out the coils to discover it’s several inches longer than pretended to be. The liars!
and still it does not go where I say
How is this analogy — ?
what is beneath the tangles is just as chaotic
and you can never win an argument against it (I know, I’ve tried all my life)
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