Sink Hair

I was hunched over, head in the sink, while water and conditioner splashed in my eyes. My mom would tell me to hold still to make it was easier for her to drag the brush through my tangled mane. 

Because my hair was so curly, I couldn’t wash it in the shower, not by myself anyway. When I tried, it would look frizzy and unkept. So, my mom had to do it for my two sisters and me. 

I cannot tell you the embarrassment I felt. All of my other friends in third grade could do their own hair. They had long, straight hair. Beautiful hair. 

After swimming, my hair would get hot, sticky and frizzy in the summertime heat. But theirs would remain gloriously soft, sometimes rattled with luxurious waves. 

I felt ugly and I hated this hair. Why couldn’t mine be straight and long like my moms? Why did it have to be nappy? 

Because I wasn't just white. So every morning, I was doomed to stand in the kitchen, leaning over the sink with a towel heavy on my shoulders just so my hair could be tugged on in a futile attempt to comb out the persistent knots.

By PH