Bee-bop-boop. You dance around with all of your hair gathered in a scrunchy at the top of your skull. It’s pulling your skin back, it’s high up, it’s a fountain of blonde string. This isn’t the fancy, glamorous kind of ponytail, the one Jennifer Aniston wears on the red carpet. This is the real life one, sweaty and messy and mediocre.
I should be focusing on my upper-cuts and jabs, but my eyes are fixed on your hairdo because it bounces when you move. As if it has a mind of it’s own. As if it’s your inner child. As if it’s the source of your thrill, the well where you draw buckets of excitement.
The kickboxing instructor screams, and you shove the bag harder until you’re so spent you run for water. I watch you go, your hair hopping and relentless. You are strong. You can throw a punch. I don’t feel lastima for you so much as for that ponytail you’re wearing, how it defies your power. How it looks like a baby deer frolicking and free, not realizing that hunters lurk out there in our hard world.
p.s. I was so locked on you, I didn’t even see the glove coming. I took a blow for lastima, and that’s okay.