| I Remember: Part 2 Hot Combs I remember nappy fro' bonds. Trips to the kitchen, hot comb on the stove. Hair grease in a green jar. They always got the chair, you'd get the floor. Little hands and elbows planted on their knees as they combed through the naps you inherited. This was a right of passage. Showing that you were now a woman. Now among the grown folk. I remember loving my curly locks, just as much as they did. And they did. Wild, yet easy to get through. Easy to touch. Easy to feel. I remember watching from the corner. We'd play in each other's hair. Wrapping little curls around little fingers. Pretending we knew what we were doing when we braided each other's hair. We made corn rolls look lopsided until we were in our preteens. We'd talk like the grown folks. Play them. Take on their rolls and begin sentences with "nigga please" and "way back when" as if we went that back. But we did. Of course we did. We were the voices of our Great Great Grandmothers and their children. I remember waking early, just to smell the morning. To sit beside, behind, beyond this blood that I had been woven into. I can feel these nappy fro' bonds. Missing those trips to the kitchen. No longer smelling the hot comb on the stove. I remember dancing wild, no braids or hair pins in our hair. Soft winding hair, whipping back and forth as our hips shook and our arms waved and our voices sang songs of another time. And we became once again those Southern Bells. Some of us lighter than the others. I remember nights of humming. Humming imagined songs about life and love. Made up words, yet it all made sense. We knew what we were talking about, yet we had no idea. What do children know about "Oh, lordy where has my baby gone" Or "That boy did me wrong and now I'm singing this song." How did we feel so deep, dancing and singing, while our wild fro's gave weigh and came to our shoulders. Little curly hairs wet from dancing. Sweat on the backs of our necks. I remember these bonding feelings through fingers and wishing dreams. We all wanted to weave our families into our hair, into our movement. It's been long since someone placed their palms on my scalp, putting their fingers through my hair. I remember wanting to put that grease in my mouth. Just to taste the smell because it was oily and sweet and slippery. Times when black was honestly beautiful And we could play beauty parlor in the kitchen, on the floor. No distractions. Just our voices harmonizing. And made up stories flying back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. |