I used to braid my hair—block out a weekend, brush synthetic
strands,
weave them and my own together, right over and left over, blurring
the lines
between mine and ours—but each time, the harshness made the
sweet
skin on the side of my middle finger split, and the band-aid kept
slipping
off, and I decided that if the cost of beauty was to draw blood
I would abstain. I started twisting my hair instead—coating it in heavy
creams, brushing out the coils until they became wool to be spun,
heavy-
handedly reshaping my pattern—and I got delicate swirls from tough
strands.
I needed gentleness even from myself, to find the sustaining
lifeblood
that teaches you to hold your chin high and your hair out, but I
declined
the invitation. When it was time to unravel everything—fingers
slipping
through the molded motif—in the greasy curves, I found my mother,
rubbing sweet
almond oil on my ends as I sat on the tiled floor, my nose tingling at
the sweet
smell of freshly-baked madeleines floating from the kitchen. My
eyelids get heavy
after a day of wringing out my curls, and when out the window, I see
the sun slip
behind the trees, she’s the one who keeps my arms up, grasping the
fallen strands
of our story. When we’re done drawing on my scalp, we retrace our
bloodline,
back to wooden docks, sweet mango syrup drips where water was
once stained by blood.
