When I was in elementary school, my mother and I had a morning ritual. Every a.m., before I left for school, she would do my hair.
My mom ran an in-home daycare during those years, and one-on-one time with her was especially hard to come by. But there was always time – always, regardless of how many rugrats were underfoot or who was throwing cereal at their sibling or which kid was having a screaming fit – there was always time for her to do my hair.
She would meet me at the couch (a horrid orange-ish affair in wool berber plaid with matching pillows and solid wood arm rests that would knock you unconscious should you be so unfortunate as to whack your head on one while mucking about the living room pretending to be an elephant) every morning, pluck the proffered hairbrush and ponytail holders from my hands, and say, “What will it be?” Sometimes it would be simple – “a high ponytail” (as opposed to a low one – they are two very different things), “pigtails,” or “a low braid” (see previous note re: high/low) – and other times it would be more complicated. “High pigtails with three braids each,” for example, was quite an undertaking. So was a french braid, if only because my mom wasn’t highly skilled at the feat.
She’d gamely create whatever ‘do I requested though, and off I’d trot to suit up for the walk to school, sporting a high-ponytail-with-three-braids-made-into-a-bun, or occasionally just three barrettes. Of graduated monochromatic tone. Only on the right side.
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