hair (chapter excerpt)
by admin
Age five through seven: the Dorothy Hamill haircut. Similar to a boy’s bowl cut, but a bit more in length. Brown, straight, thick. I grew up with the head muse of a figure skater, split ends hacked away to all American smile. Then puberty slammed into me, the natural curl kicked in shortly after length grown then chopped due to the unforgiving knots. Every morning before school—a fight that lasted hours and almost always ended in the give-up harness of a rubber band. Tie it back, shellac it down straight out of the shower. Let it dry naturally while confined. A contradiction. I lusted after the long, straight locks of classmates, popular girls, inherited dead cell blessings. They had halos. I had a tumbleweed.
In sixth grade a classmate gave me a Christmas present on the bus. She stammered on about her mom suggesting it while I slowly opened the box. The box had a teal and pink cartoon cat on the side, nondescript. I pulled out the three travel bottles of shampoo, leave-in conditioner treatment, a plastic comb. I brush my hair, I said. I wanted to yank out the lump in my throat and hit her with it. I thought maybe you could use it, she replied, her dirty blonde bob shrugging perfect as she said it. I have a brush, I said. And shampoo. Tell your mom thanks I guess.
I like that you can smell the strands and find evidence of the previous night. Smoke, bar, camp, summertime. The mane grips these things, reminds you. And hands, hands that are not afraid to touch and rummage, to get lost in the foliage. I am known to warn during affection—put them in and you may not get them back. I love fingers exploring my scalp through the thicket. In the mornings I work bits of knots out—the ends of coils mostly. I lose a bobby pin within it now and again; I no longer angle mirrors to mourn what is mine. It’s mine. I grew up, and grew sick of fighting it. Nature will always kick you back, kick you harder. Life happened. There were better things to do; I ran out of time to lasso my mane—I let it go.