Monday, February 8, 2010


I started at the top of the mound and felt my pants scrunch around my leg as I slid off the top, hands nervously clutching the space around me. Soft tufts of hair slid through my fingers, hair so fine that even at this size it made me wish to curl up in it and sleep. I slid off the edge with a sense of apprehension, and led go of my handholds only when my arms jerked in their sockets. Down, down I slid, through jungles of hair, gold swarming past me faster and faster. Pieces of the hair caught me, turning me around, until I was spinning and falling and jumping through the most amazing shining playground in the world. I reached the bottom in under a minute, but for all the joy I’d experienced it felt like hours. Tumbling onto the gigantic cushions my heart beat hard with the excitement of the fall, in my mind’s eye I could still see the swatches of bouncing curls fall around me. They now hang above me, gently swaying, I can reach up and brush the ends with my fingertips.
The world has much a different perspective at this size, where something as ordinary as curls become a gift from the gods, and the woman standing above me a goddess herself. She smiles and sun shines in my world, her eyes giant nebulas in the distance, swirling forever, the light never fully reaching me. In the middle of each nebula is a black hole that threatens to suck me in to a place from which I can never return. I look away from her eyes and back to her curls, shining like my sun. A loose strand tumbles over a mountain of curl and comes to bounce near me, like a great flying dragon. The bunch over there is a burning phoenix that will always be reborn, like this woman’s spirit as she continues her search of a thousand years. A Medusa of the modern age, and even I am in danger of turning to stone.
I lay my head back and close my eyes, whereupon I dream of my fantastic ride down the waterfall of curls.

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