I resurfaced from a grueling week to discover that a couple of my domains had expired. I might have lost a few years of my best writing. I scrambled for help from my webhost and a savvy friend. At the same time, I struggled to deal with a trifecta of challenging situations, including the daunting reality that today the place where I live has no water due to a broken main. Luckily, I showered last night.
Not only did I shower — I also saturated my hair with conditioner. I’ve been avoiding this task for longer than I could unabashedly acknowledge. My Syrian curls set their own course. A snarl overtook the far back where I jab my copper hair pin in the last minute dash out the door. I can’t really reach that spot. I’ve been aware of the growing knot for weeks.
My heart has grown restive. Treating my curls seems like self-care, doesn’t it? With weakening eyes, I strain to read the tiny letters on the back of the bottle. “Gently rake your fingers through the lengths of hair,” they caution. “Avoid breakage.” What I wouldn’t give to honor their advice on other fragile parts of myself. Instead I gather the splinters of my spirit into a dustpan and drop them into a bag. I rummage through the junk drawer looking for glue strong enough to hold my reassembled heart together.
Standing by a small folding mirror last night, I reached for a pair of stylist’s scissors. I hesitated only a moment before clipping the matted clump from my head. I heard the echo of my father’s voice nearly six decades ago. A table fan had grabbed the end of my waist-length tresses and whipped around until my head jammed against the grill. My mother screamed, “Dick, just cut it!” Grandma Corley huddled in her chair, confused by the commotion. My brothers anxiously hovered in the background. For my father’s part, he pulled the plug and settled into the task with a screw driver and an infinite supply of patience. Over a painstaking half-hour, he dismantled the fan and manually reversed the blades.
“A woman’s hair is her crowning glory,” he proclaimed, while I bit my lips and restrained my tears.
Finally free of the offending snarl last night, I coaxed my wet hair into two fat braids and snuggled myself into warm pajamas. I studied my greying head in the mirror. I stared into the pale blue eyes at the woman who grew from that terrified, silent child. She had held herself impossibly rigid while a grown man strained to protect what he believed to be her most valuable asset. I wondered, not for the first time, what other lies my father told me.
It’s the eighth day of the one-hundred and twenty-third month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
My tiny house, Angel’s Haven
My friend Rachel Warren is restoring the sun-faded mural originally created and painted by Alex Loesch to honor my baby brother, Stephen, who had his own hard truths to face.
“How does one know if she has forgiven? You tend to feel sorrow over the circumstance instead of rage, you tend to feel sorry for the person rather than angry with him. You tend to have nothing left to say about it all.”
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