in sixth grade,
she hands me
one eyeliner pencil
and a thing of mascara
and says good luck.

in seventh grade,
i ask for a hair straightener.
we buy one the cheapest one
and i teach her how to use it.

at 16 years old,
i ask her to braid my wet hair.
she combs over my ears
and pulls too far to the left.

i’m 19, staring into a mirror
at a painted face that looks
far from my own, hair i did myself.
i smile because it is my work of art.
i cry because she never taught me a thing.