I am [not] my hair

I never thought I really bought into the myths about natural black hair. It was never ugly to me. Just something slightly enigmatic...like a nose ring.
I gradually, then suddenly, grew tired of treating my hair with chemicals to make it do something it was never going to do anyway; be long, silky and flowing.
It was simply an acceptance. Not of Afrocentrism, but of the futility of punishing my hair for growing a certain way. Much like a mother who finally accepts that her daughter is gay and stops setting up dates for her.
I stopped. Cold-turkey.

But today, bored with my mid-sized 'fro, I decided to straighten it with a flat-iron.
An hour and a half later, I actually SAW myself in the mirror, the one I had been staring at the whole time. Through a wispy cloud of scorched hair smoke, I saw what I was doing.
Straightening my hair because I thought my honey would like it better. Straightening my hair to say "See, it's not really as short as it looks!" Pulling, combing and burning my hair to prove that it could still be long, silky and flowing.
I touched a handful of pressed hair. It crackled in my fingers.

My daughter, who had been playing "beauty shop" with her dolls on my bed, poked her head into the bathroom.
"Mommy, I like your bangs."
I frowned through them.
"Feel it," I said.
She petted a flattened place on my head.
"It's kinda rough."
Yes, this whole thing is kinda rough, I thought.
"What about this part?" I guided her hand to an unpressed section.
"It's floofy!"

I got in the shower and washed away over an hour's worth of work, twenty-something years of bewilderment and centuries of disdain.

It felt...natural.

Street Songs

Fall is here. Sort of.
Well, the spirit of fall has arrived. And on the not-so-cool breeze came a gentle reminder of this story, written 4 years ago.

Street Songs

The air is filled with the sound of the city. Cell phone ringtones, crowded streets, busy people. All of them so caught in the chaos of their own lives, they no longer feel its rhythm, hear the music. All except one. Sitting on an overturned milk crate, under a street sign, he mumbles to himself. Nodding his head in time to the footsteps passing by, he bends over and gently lifts a violin from its case. Whispering to it, he holds the violin up to his face like a baby.
He runs his stubby, stained fingers across the glossy wood lovingly, lifting the instrument to his cheek.
"Do you remember?"
His brow furrows. A troubled mind searching for something.
A single, hazy memory.
A song.
He hums a simple tune, holding the last note out long. A single string responds. It moves for him. He watches and smiles. Then reaching down again, he takes the bow from the case, turns the violin to rest on his chin, and draws the bow across the string.
She moans.
The sound rises above the city and echoes through the streets.
Each note dances. Each one sings.

A young couple pushes parallel trails through the crowd, their footsteps oddly out of rhythm. It is hard to know whether they are even going in the same direction. They move like strangers. But there is something between them.
A certain heaviness.
Unspoken anger and resentment strike a chord of discontentment. What once was love is replaced by duty. Conversation leads to argument so often...
There is nothing left to say.
Turning the corner, they are met with insistent song. The sound rises from the street and draws them in.

The haggard man plays on. He doesn't even notice the couple standing in front of him. His eyes shift from left to right, left to right as if seeing the notes, but there is no music there to read.
The song finds itself.
It draws at the soul.
The young man and woman stand there, wataching his bow glide across the strings. Ti is as if time has stopped. In the stillness, they hear what he hears. In each note...
Love.
The memory of their own love surrounds them, carried in song.
When the last note fades, the young man tosses a handful of coins into the worn case.
A small price to pay.
He turns to his wife and offers her his hand. As they walk away, their footsteps make time with their hearts. An uncomplicated beat.
No words are necessary.
There is nothing left to say.

The street fills once more with the sound of the imitation of life. The violinist lets the bow rest in his lap, his eyes finally still, fixed on a point in the sky. Then whispering to it, he holds the violin up to his face like a baby.
Remembering love, he hums the tune once more, holding the last not out long.
A single string responds.
"Ahh...you found me."
He tucks the violin beneath his chin and starts to play.

-AFH
10/14/05
revised 10/01/09