I Love My Hair

Every night before I go to bed, Mama combs my hair. I sit between her knees, resting my elbows on her thighs, like pillows.

Mama is always gentle. She rubs coconut oil along my scalp and slowly pulls the comb through my hair, but sometimes it still hurts.

When Mama gets to especially tangled places, I try my hardest not to cry, sucking in my breath and pressing my hands together until they’re red.

But a few tears always manage to squeeze out. “Mama, stop!” I cry when I can’t stand the comb tugging at my hair any longer.

Mama puts the comb down and rubs my hurting places. Then she leans in close to me, like she has a big secret to tell. “Do you know why you’re so lucky to have this head of hair, Keyana?” she asks. I shake my head no. “Because it’s beautiful and you can wear it in any style you choose.”

“I can spin your hair into fine, soft yarn, just like our grandmothers did at their spinning wheels, and weave it into a puffy little bun.

“Or I can part your hair into straight lines and plant rows of braids along you scalp, the way we plant seeds in our garden, then wait and watch for them to grow.”