Hair

Hair: a short story

Pull yourself together, Sasha; it's just hair!

Sasha kept telling herself this in order to keep from crying, but she knew that was a lie. It wasn't just hair; it was more than that. It was her crown, the first thing people see when she walks into the room, her connection to her ancestors.

Although it can mean many things to different people, hair holds an important place in black culture. It is a symbol of our power, our strength, and our resilience! It is a symbol of survival, and a symbol, as well as a cause, for celebration. All of these things Sasha had wanted to instill in her daughter, Morgan. She whispered her dreams and wishes, and hopes into each strand as she smoothed the wax into her daughter's coils and twisted them into thick ropes. It took two days at home to lock every inch of Morgan's hair and five years for the thick, dark ropes to grow down her back instead of hanging at her ears. And now, after all the love and care she had put into her daughter's hair, the weekends spent detoxing and washing and retwisting the new growth until it became one with the rest of her hair. After all that, Morgan decided that before she started her freshman year of high school, with just one more week to go, she wanted to change her hair. No more dreadlocks. To Morgan, locks meant that her hair was confined. She wanted to free her hair...to allow her coils to do what they wanted.

She was happy for Morgan, honestly, she was. Her baby girl was growing up and becoming more independent. And yet...she was growing away from her. No longer would she sit on a pile of pillows in between her mother's legs and let her tame her hair. There would be no more "Mommy, help me" or "Mommy, please do my hair." Morgan had already picked out a hair salon that all of her friends went to. Once a month, she and the other young women bursting at the seams to be adults would go in for deep conditioning treatments, a trim, nail polish, and virgin cocktails. She would laugh and tell them her secrets, her fears...she would tell them and not her...her mother, her friend.

"Mom, are you ready?"

Morgan's locks were piled on top of her head in a giant bun, soaked all the way through with an entire bottle of conditioner and two bottles of hair oil. She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow as she waited for her mother's response before looking back down at her phone and walking toward the kitchen.

"I'll be there in a minute," She mumbled as she gathered the tools she would need. Extra conditioner and oil. Metal pick. Towels. A plastic bag for all of the loose hair. Rubber bands. Hair clips.

Sasha made her way down the hall toward the living room; Sasha was sitting on her pile of pillows scrolling through Disney+ to find the perfect movie to watch while they began the process. She sighed again and struggled to hold back the tears as she settled her legs around her daughter's shoulders.

The opening credits for The Princess and the Frog came on, and Sasha looked down at her daughter.

"We can still watch this, can't we, mom?"

At that moment, Morgan was three years old all over again. There she was, her little girl bouncing between her legs, singing along to "Friends on the Other Side" as she combed and braided her hair. Sasha smiled and nodded her head, wiping away a tear once Morgan had turned back toward the television.

Yes, she was growing up, but deep inside this budding young woman was her little girl with her gap-toothed smile, and there she would always be.