3
fingertips massage the soapy elixir into my scalp. It felt like
paradise as she applied the conditioner and detangler on my
ebony locks. I began to relax my body and slump over the hard
kitchen table. Then suddenly, my grandmother clapped her
hands and said, “now for the hard part”. She sat me down as
she pulled out a vast set of combs. She began methodically
picking out my hair. “Ouch!” I screamed. My hair was far
worse than I had anticipated. Much to my dismay, as the
combing continued through my protest, a small group of family
members gathered in the kitchen to watch the spectacle. While
I felt my cheeks get fire hot as they all made comments about
my unruly mane, the raking of my hair continued until every
last lock had been picked out and examined. The end result
was a stylish up do complete with colorful plastic barrettes and
a feeling of rejuvenation. Everything leading up till that point
had been worth it. I felt positively wonderful.
Yet the next day my father was back in his small yellow
Volkswagen to whisk me off home, and back to reality. As days
passed my new hairstyle grew bushy and tangled. No matter
how I tried to keep it preserved it seemed to waste away like a
sick pet. Finally my hair was inevitably back to its original
state, maybe even worse and more matted. I tossed and turned