Hair

My mother’s hair shined in long, deep brown waves. It stuck to her forehead in thick chunks when she spent 30 hours delivering me. When I was little, I wrapped it around my finger, stroking it like a teddy bear, and claimed it as my security blanket. She cut her hair when I learned to walk, after I grew accustomed to latching onto her hair, pulling myself up like the prince trying to reach Rapunzel.

As I grew, so did my mother’s muscle problems. Her hair was one part of her I could touch without causing her pain. I added barrettes, covering her with multicolored plastic animals facing every direction. I saw her curly hair surrounding her like thick thunderclouds, as she lay in bed, too sick to finish our home schooling classes. I closed the door, took my books to the next room, and watched my own straight hair fall forward as I leaned over to finish my lesson as she slept.

I peeking over the crib, my short six-year old legs on tiptoe could just see her. My little sister was an angel, with golden ringlets framing her chubby face. I gave her a lollypop while she sat on my mother’s lap, to make her stop crying. It was always a fight to get a comb through her hair. I held her hand tight, as strangers in the supermarket stopped to tell me how cute she was. I know it, I said as I thrust out my chin.

At 11, I was still short enough to have to stand on my tiptoes to see into the mirror at my grandparent’s butterfly brown bathroom. With one long, cold snip, the hairs slipped to the carpeted floor and I stooped to pick them up before anyone saw them. But they noticed well enough when I rolled back the door—my bangs were only a half inch long. It would grow back, along with the tingling hope that one time I would cut it and my reflection would look just like one of those girls in the magazine.

I tentatively reached out to touch one perfect white curl, but couldn’t do it. I returned to my seat next to the rest of my grieving family as they closed the casket. I would never again see my laughing grandmother’s eyes, or feel her soft hair as she leaned in to give me a hug. Hair grows even after you’re dead, or at least it looks like it does.

He sat on the couch with scissors next to him. His lower lip protruding in defiance and his face hard. “I want my hair this way.” He said, as I stared at him and the random patches of hair were missing. At six, he knew what he wanted. I wish I did. When my brother was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he said a daddy, because they take care of things. I told him that was a very admirable goal, and then I buzzed the rest of his hair off.

It didn’t help that I was pasty white, with skin that rejected melanin. That I liked boy’s flip-flops instead of high heels, and my basketball shorts and t-shirts yelled “I am American.” Short hair seemed sensible for a summer in the tropics. I woke up drowsy from layovers to find many eyes staring at me in a new country. Eyes that belonged to girls with bronze skin, revealing tank tops, and stunning shoes. Girls that tossed their long hair and walked away before I could see their condemnation. My hair was not long enough to hide behind.

I heard him before I saw him. All grown up, I hadn’t been home in months, but my father’s voice still made me laugh and come running. Stopping in mid-step, I controlled my expression, asking, “What happened to your face?” Months of scraggly whiskers moved to reply, “I was waiting for you to come home and trim my beard.” I had become the family hair-cutter, after a weekend of training years ago. I quickly stepped back into my responsibilities.