My hair has always carried the marks of different times, feelings, and separations in my life. In elementary school, when chronic eczema took over my scalp and stained my pillowcases, I was prescribed a mud-like remedy and every night my father would take on the task of applying it. He would press the cold paste onto my scalp, I would sit with the pain for half an hour, then he would rinse it away. The ritual went on until no patches remained.
What stayed with me is not only the treatment but the way he dried my hair afterward. Strand by strand, as if each strand were fragile as thin glass. He made sure no damp spot lingered long enough to make my condition worse. His care turned into a memory that still follows me.
I was never a kid with long hair for as long as I wanted, for eczema kept cutting it short (yes pun intended). I would hold on to the length until the treatment cycle returned, then I would cut it again. Even when the mud-like paste clung to the strands, he carried the same patience.
As a teenager, when my hair grew to its longest, I became obsessed with washing it every day. I made myself believe that I couldn’t leave the house otherwise. I never dried it manually. The towels that once absorbed the ooze from my eczema wounds became towels placed on my pillow for wet hair.
I never thought about what my hair meant to me. Perhaps I should.
Today after a shower, I decided to dry my hair fully. Usually I let the air finish the work for me. This time I wanted to touch each strand as he once did. I ended up doing the same old routine today though. I needed some gentleness but I was too distracted to take action. After dealing with my persistent wisdom teeth all week, I needed some tenderness. Perhaps the day I can show myself gentleness and care will be the day I begin to believe I’ve moved forward.
You might like help is a coal stove for me as well.
