Ritual
Her head darts from left to right, pulling the strands of her hair out of my fingers. "Sit still, darling," I say, patiently and guide her head back to position.
"I am, mommy," she says, from her perch between my legs. Her hands are twitching, and I can see that she is fighting herself to keep her hands off her head.
"Just keep your head still, baby. I'll be finished quickly." I use the fine tooth comb to carefully rake the baby fine hair in a uniform direction, dividing side from side as I go. The hair doesn't want to divide, though. I grab the water bottle, and mist her head.
"Too wet, mommy," and there is a waver in her voice.
"Sorry, baby. I need the hair to be wet for this."
I can hear my mother speaking through my voice when I tell her to stay still, when I guide her head. I can feel echoes of my tiny child-self when she tries to pull away. Time doubles and superimposes itself.
Hair grooming is this ritual between mother and child. Bitter, and sweet. The comb digs in, the hair pulls, the water smoothes down the hair. I can feel the shadow of my mother against my back, and I want to lean into her. It is so intimate, so caring. When she is done I will look beautiful, my hair perfectly coiffed, but that is not what this is about. It is a ritual.
She pats between her legs and I sit down. Her warm thighs rest against my sides. First she carefully brushes my hair, roughly pulling all the snags and knots out. Then she will go over my hair with a comb until all my hair is smooth. Then she will wet the hair, dipping the comb in a cup of water over and over again, sometimes dipping her fingers in to get even more water to my hair. Then dividing, strand by strand. I love when she french braids my hair best, although it hurts more. She tightly pulls each strand until my entire scalp tingles. It takes so long, though, that the repetition itself is soothing. Divide, pull, divide, pull. I tense my body to be as still as possible, and pull against her pull. She gently pushes my chin up and down, from side to side, moving my head to get better access to the parts she is working on.
When she is done she lays the tools aside and I jump up to see what she has done to my hair. I feel clean and beautiful. Loved.
My fingers work quickly. I pick out an elastic and pull the hair through. I turn her head and do the same to the other side. Her back leans warm against me as I give a final brush. "Go look, baby."
She jumps up and the doubling slides away. I am me, and she is she. I ruminate again on how parenthood is like a chain; parent to child to parent to child to parent again. It is also like time traveling. You are the parent, but you are also the child being parented, and you are the child becoming a parent.
We are ripples. Corkscrews. Ringlets in a little girl's pigtail, twisting around and around again.
"I am, mommy," she says, from her perch between my legs. Her hands are twitching, and I can see that she is fighting herself to keep her hands off her head.
"Just keep your head still, baby. I'll be finished quickly." I use the fine tooth comb to carefully rake the baby fine hair in a uniform direction, dividing side from side as I go. The hair doesn't want to divide, though. I grab the water bottle, and mist her head.
"Too wet, mommy," and there is a waver in her voice.
"Sorry, baby. I need the hair to be wet for this."
I can hear my mother speaking through my voice when I tell her to stay still, when I guide her head. I can feel echoes of my tiny child-self when she tries to pull away. Time doubles and superimposes itself.
Hair grooming is this ritual between mother and child. Bitter, and sweet. The comb digs in, the hair pulls, the water smoothes down the hair. I can feel the shadow of my mother against my back, and I want to lean into her. It is so intimate, so caring. When she is done I will look beautiful, my hair perfectly coiffed, but that is not what this is about. It is a ritual.
She pats between her legs and I sit down. Her warm thighs rest against my sides. First she carefully brushes my hair, roughly pulling all the snags and knots out. Then she will go over my hair with a comb until all my hair is smooth. Then she will wet the hair, dipping the comb in a cup of water over and over again, sometimes dipping her fingers in to get even more water to my hair. Then dividing, strand by strand. I love when she french braids my hair best, although it hurts more. She tightly pulls each strand until my entire scalp tingles. It takes so long, though, that the repetition itself is soothing. Divide, pull, divide, pull. I tense my body to be as still as possible, and pull against her pull. She gently pushes my chin up and down, from side to side, moving my head to get better access to the parts she is working on.
When she is done she lays the tools aside and I jump up to see what she has done to my hair. I feel clean and beautiful. Loved.
My fingers work quickly. I pick out an elastic and pull the hair through. I turn her head and do the same to the other side. Her back leans warm against me as I give a final brush. "Go look, baby."
She jumps up and the doubling slides away. I am me, and she is she. I ruminate again on how parenthood is like a chain; parent to child to parent to child to parent again. It is also like time traveling. You are the parent, but you are also the child being parented, and you are the child becoming a parent.
We are ripples. Corkscrews. Ringlets in a little girl's pigtail, twisting around and around again.