hair

My mother used to straighten my hair when I was a child. She used the hair-dryer and a roll-brush to make it all smooth and white. Like white. Roll. Pull. Roll. Pull. Pat a cake. I later learned how to do it myself. I learned how to be afraid of rain because it curled it all up again. I learned how to be afraid of damp and humid weather because the blackness came back into my hair.

One day, I was in Luanda on holidays and, I must have been around 16 or something, I tried on some hair gel at my aunt's place. My hair went frizzy in the space of a second. My long, smooth, white hair, went black. I got into a panic. I begged my mother to take me home to the safety of my hair-dryer and my roll-brush. Otherwise, I refused to face the world. When I was 17, I used my mother's "chemical bomb" to straighten my hair. It left in its wake a smell of rotten eggs, but my hair looked so white I couldn't hide the smile. My hair was so white, my mother would be proud. One of my friends said I looked like George Michael, I almost swooned.

I have hair no more, and I feel cheated. I don't care that I'm bald, but I'm finally proud of my curls and would like to show them off, to parade them in bold strokes of orange and blue. My blackness multicoloured, just like I am. Roll. Pull. Roll. Pull. So much work of hands. Such waste of beauty. My curls!

Today, as I braided my daughter's hair, I felt the joy of her hair invade me. It's long and coarse. It's rough and tender. It's full of attitude. I'm becoming a pro! I braid and I braid and I braid. And in each of her braids there is one of my curls. Hidden inside, there it is, curling up pretty, like the hair of an angel. In each of her braids there is orange and blue. There is blackness. Blackness proud and shimmering. Like a scintillating, brilliant, shining precious gem, my daughter's hair is teaching me proud. And I want her proud too.