I wrote a poem: DIVA DOWN.

Diva Down I am a bald woman in a world that thinks hair is a halo, that femininity grows only in strands, that power must spill past the shoulders to be believed. My scalp is a clean moon. It catches light without apology. It remembers every hand that shaved it— fearful, deliberate, defiant— each pass a small rebellion against the mirror’s old demands. Diva down, they say, as if the fall is failure. As if the descent from spectacle is not a choice, as if kneeling isn’t sometimes the strongest posture a body can take. I have known stages. I have known the choreography of being looked at, the tax of perfection, the sequined silence that comes with praise. Smile here. Turn there. Be effortless— which is to say, be exhausted beautifully. When my hair left, it didn’t drift away like a soft goodbye. It went with a crack. A break. A shedding that sounded like thunder inside my own chest. I stood in the shower watching identity slide toward the drain, and for a moment I mourned the version of me who hid behind curls, who negotiated safety with volume, who believed softness required cover. Diva down. Make room. Clear the stage. What rose was quieter, but heavier. A woman who learned the architecture of her skull, the geography of scars, the way her face speaks without distraction. I learned my head is not empty— it is a drum. Every insult echoes, every compliment reverberates too long, and still I keep rhythm. Children stare first. Then men. Then women who recognize something they were told to bury. Some look away fast, as if courage is contagious. I am not brave every day. Some mornings I miss the easy disguise, the way hair could absorb a bad mood, the way it could be blamed for everything that went wrong. But there is a radical honesty in having nothing to toss over your shoulder. No curtain call. No hiding during the encore. Diva down— but listen closely. This is not the sound of defeat. This is the microphone hitting the floor so the voice can finally be heard without amplification. I am learning new glamour leading with bone and breath. New grace rooted in survival, not spectacle. I am learning that a crown does not have to sparkle to be heavy with meaning. If you see me bowed, know this: I am not praying to be smaller. I am gathering myself. The fall was real. So is the woman who stood up after it, bare-headed, unadorned, still singing— just closer now to the truth of her own sound.