When the Fro Flows.

For years I sat in the barber's chair,  

Snip, snip—my head laid bare.  

Society’s bidding, I’d comply,  

But deep inside, I’d ask, "Oh why?"  

When the fro flows, you let the wind blow.

Two years plus, my crown took root,  

Eight inches now—it’s quite the hoot!  

Black with streaks of brown so bold,  

A masterpiece, a sight to behold!  

When the fro flows, you let the wind blow.

Mum frowns, she shakes her head,  

"Cut it short!"—but I’ve misheard.  

"Grow it more?"—I nod and smile,  

This mane of mine is worth the while.  

When the fro flows, you let the wind blow.

Some say "sweet," some say "cool,"  

Others stare, their minds unspooled.  

Dreads? Cornrows? Just let it be?  

Or let it dance wild and free?  

When the fro flows, you let the wind blow.

Up north, the mission calls my name,  

Desert winds will test my mane.  

Through heat and dust, through sun’s hot glow,  

This fro shall rise, this fro shall grow!  

When the fro flows, you let the wind blow.

So here I stand, no clippers near,  

My crown intact, my path is clear.  

No more trims for the world’s decree,  

This hair is mine—let it be free!  

When the fro flows, you let the wind blow.