Medusa Hair, Do Care

My straight-ish hair,
At its longest,
Stretches down to the bottom
Of my shoulder blades.

I remember being able to once
Sit on the ends of my braids
At my first grade desk
If I leaned back far enough.

Now, I stare into the mirror,
And an unholy crown
Frames my face, like
The flames of a fire–

Though made of molten ash
And steel wool bristles;
Or maybe more like Medusa’s
Writhing serpents atop her head

That visage turned her
Beholders into stone;
If I do lop off these locks,
Will I too spread my poison?

Or might I, instead,
Make full use of my
Wings, finally,
And set myself free?