Good Hair Days - Two Versions

I wrote this poem as a homework assignment for the Poet's Workshop I've been taking at Duke. The assignment was to tell your life story in three or more incidents involving hair. My first thought was "A sistah can tell a thousand stories about hair!", but I tried to restrain myself. Duke's classes have been cancelled due to the snow in Durham, so I will have to wait another week to get this poem workshopped. In the meantime, I am posting two versions here: the sort of stream of consciousness version the poem came to me as and the chronological version of the events. It would be great to get feedback on which one I should present to the poet's group next week. Also, any suggestions on what to change/cut would be helpful. Let me know what you think!
========================================================
Good Hair Days – Stream of Consciousness

I Can’t Remember Exactly When: I read an article about racial differences in women’s self-esteem. White women had higher self-esteem on days they felt skinny; black women had higher self-esteem on a good hair day.

Summer 1980s: My father finds a woman near my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn who cornrows my hair into Princess Leah designs.

Late 1970s: After trying to hot comb my hair, my mother spits out the label “tender-headed”. I cry. My head is not the only part of me that is tender.

November 2007: I get my hair braided to grow out my curly ‘fro. The long hair draws attention from the guys, but it is short-lived.

October 14, 2003: Natalia drives up from Virginia for my father’s funeral in Brooklyn. I don’t remember what either of our hair looked like on that day, but I’ll never forget the gesture.

June 2008: I sit perfectly still in Crystal’s chair as she lops off five inches with scissors. I feel myself come back with every snip.

December 1972: A photo of the Taylor girls - me, a chubby, drooling infant, held by my 6 year-old sister with afro puffs. Years later our little brother will refer to this picture as Princess Leah meets Jabba the Hut.

Fall or Winter Early 1980s: A photo of me at taking church wearing two chin length braids fastened by barrettes at top and bottom, a plaid jacket with sleeves two inches from my wrists, round black glasses and an awkward smile to hide my buck teeth. Every now and then I still see myself as that little girl.

Summer 1985: Mommy takes me to her hairdresser to get my first relaxer. It takes forever for the roller set to dry. When I shake out the long, straight hair, I think I am grown.

April 5, 2006: I look at myself in the hand mirror after Ana cuts off the relaxed hair. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks happy.

Fall 1994: I see a “Black Hair Care” sign on Broxton Avenue in Westwood. I climb the stairs of the salon and sit in Ana’s chair for the first time. I find my way to her chair every two weeks for the next 12 years.

Every Morning Since April 2006: I look into a mirror and see my father’s face staring back at me. Some days I find it comforting; other days I am startled by the ghost’s reflection.

October 2006: I start looking for good hairdresser as soon as I move to Durham. I don’t want to go home for Christmas looking like Ben Wallace.

December 2006: I cringe when the church ladies ask me, “What happened to all that beautiful hair?” I tell them, “I cut it off!”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Good Hair Days - Chronological

I Can’t Remember Exactly When: I read an article about racial differences in women’s self-esteem. White women had higher self-esteem on days they felt skinny; black women had higher self-esteem on good hair days.

December 1972: A photo of the Taylor girls - me, a chubby, drooling infant, held by my 6 year-old sister with afro puffs. Years later our little brother will refer to this picture as Princess Leah meets Jabba the Hut.

Late 1970s: After trying to hot comb my hair, my mother spits out the label “tender-headed”. I cry. My head is not the only part of me that is tender.

Fall or Winter Early 1980s: A photo of me at taking church wearing two chin length braids fastened by barrettes at top and bottom, a plaid jacket with sleeves two inches from my wrists, round black glasses and an awkward smile to hide my buck teeth. Every now and then I still see myself as that little girl.

Summer 1980s: My father finds a woman near my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn who cornrows my hair into Princess Leah designs.

Summer 1985: Mommy takes me to her hairdresser to get my first relaxer. It takes forever for the roller set to dry. When I shake out the long, straight hair, I think I am grown.

Fall 1994: I see a “Black Hair Care” sign on Broxton Avenue in Westwood. I climb the stairs of the salon and sit in Ana’s chair for the first time. I find my way to her chair every two weeks for the next 12 years.

October 14, 2003: Natalia drives up from Virginia for my father’s funeral in Brooklyn. I don’t remember what either of our hair looked like on that day, but I’ll never forget the gesture.

April 5, 2006: I look at myself in the hand mirror after Ana cuts off the relaxed hair. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks happy.

Every Morning Since April 2006: I look into a mirror and see my father’s face staring back at me. Some days I find it comforting; other days I am startled by the ghost’s reflection.

October 2006: I start looking for good hairdresser as soon as I move to Durham. I don’t want to go home for Christmas looking like Ben Wallace.

December 2006: I cringe when the church ladies ask me, “What happened to all that beautiful hair?” I tell them, “I cut it off!”

November 2007: I get my hair braided to grow out my curly ‘fro. The long hair draws attention from the guys, but it is short-lived.

June 2008: I sit perfectly still in Crystal’s chair as she lops off five inches with scissors. I feel myself come back with every snip.