The psychology of control, repeated a thousand times, screamed out by every follicle. Every one a insistent reminder of your place, and where you’re headed. That’s why I pull on your ponytail, tug on your braids, grab a handful of your hair and use that grip.
That’s a lie, that is.
No, I pull on your hair because it hurts you, but its the kind of hurt that matches the sting of a pinprick with the spread of a smack. Something that’s simultaneously precise and imprecise. The best of both worlds, and why settle for anything less?
That’s also a lie.