Amyris held her breath to brace herself for the pain. She felt the dull point of the comb slice through sections of her hair, so precisely that she could feel beads of blood rush to the surface. She began to close her eyes as if the relief would be found behind her lids, but then all she saw was a pulsating wall of crimson with each lingering blink. Each pass of the comb was slow and painstakingly careful.
This was an ordinary pain she should be used to; this monthly sacrificial ritual of money and time for beauty was starting to become more than she could bear. Each row was woven into tight, orderly, razor-straight braids that felt like they were tugging her brain through her scalp. She began to feel the familiar thud of heartbeat-like rhythms deep in her ear drums. Tears wetted the outer corners of her eyes and she began to feel beads of sweat running from her temples and collecting in her kitchen, simmering at the warm base of the back of her neck. She asked her hairstylist, Colette, if she could grab a cup of water from the kitchen. Colette offered to get the water for her while grabbing a styrofoam cup from a nearby creaky cabinet.
Amyris quickly scanned the booth for her purse and grabbed it like it was a lifejacket. She reached in the old, shapeless satchel to find her bottle of Motrin. She grabbed it clumsily and slipped a couple of the red buttons into her mouth like bitter candy. Desperately, she swallowed them with as much of the moisture in her mouth that she could manage. Colette returned with the water and Amyris loudly gulped the water down with a vigorous vengeance. She suddenly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and dabbed her damp kitchen with her palm. She let out a harmonious chuckle and loud sigh while Colette nodded and smiled, apologetically. Amyris wiped her eyes and stared at the masterful tightly woven artwork on her scalp and began to envision a smooth, clean scalp.
The freedom from this ritual that kept her hair bound to her head, seemingly against its will. She imagined the way a breeze might feel, cool and serene. Soft and blissful, but then that vision was interrupted by the cluck of her mother’s tongue.
The furrowed brow of disappointment and a stare as sharp as glass is what she would receive should Amyris indulge her fantasy.
An unrequited fantasy of self-love and freedom was chucked right out of the window.