Witch Hair

The lone hair emerged
curling from my chin, but I
don’t rush to pluck it.

It catches the light
while on a car ride somewhere
and you notice then.

You’re reaching for it
and I brush your hand away
“Don’t you dare, it’s mine!”

Why rush to erase
hormones shifting in mid-life
like they’re supposed to?

The woman I am
growing into my future,
nature taking course?

Your hand stops, relents.
“I don’t find that attractive.”
Of course you wouldn’t.

Beauty ideals won’t.
A hairless, crease-free face is
what they desire.

“I understand that,
but this is not your body.
I choose if I pluck.”

I say it for me
and so my children can see
aging without shame.

Eloísa Pérez-Lozano writes poems and essays about Mexican-American identity, women’s issues and motherhood. She graduated from Iowa State University with a B.S. in psychology and an M.S. in journalism and mass communications. A Best of the Net-nominated writer, her work has been featured in The Texas Observer, Houston Chronicle, Houston Public Media, and Poets Reading the News, among others. She lives with her family in Houston, Texas.