Thick, Curly Hair

It’s a girl, she said to two people, who deep in their gut thought they would hear the opposite. Swallowing our shock, we looked to the screen as the technician showed us just how much hair you already had. We spied little squiggly lines waving around in the amniotic fluid.

Months later, with my mother by my right side and my husband and the attending nurse each supporting one of my legs, I pushed a baby into the hot, fluorescent lights of this world. Sure enough, you emerged with a full head of silky, fine black hair.

You know it will all fall out; she’ll probably be bald for a while, they said to two people, who were wondering if they could keep you alive long enough to lose a single strand. We smoothed down your wild mane, which seemed to be soaking up whatever radiance it could each day so that every day after your birth, your tresses were lighter than the day before.

Months later, (you never did lose that hair, never even had a bald spot), your hair texture changed, as I knew it must. A baby born to two very curly-haired parents could not have straight hair. It started with the ends curling ever so slightly and the back layer of your very thick locks spiraling from the roots. All the while, your hair continued to absorb all the brightness of the world and there was a nimbus making its way around your head.

She looks like a little doll with all those ringlets, they said to two people, who were so grateful to finally be pulled from the fog of surviving your first year. It was the ring of fireflies, the corona of sunshine, the bonnet of light around your face that pulled us out of our daze and burned the mist away. Your honey-dipped spirals acted as our lantern, brightening up our days.

Months later, when the coily corkscrews had worked their way around your entire head, the battles began, as I knew they would. A little girl with such a firelight inside of her would not allow her glorious crown to be flattened by the assault of wash day. Bribery and threats were employed in order to rinse away the grime that assailed the splendor of your diadem.

Tell your husband to get ready to fend off the boys, they say to me, but I believe we will raise you in such a way that a bodyguard will not be necessary. If our strategy proves successful, you’ll grow up fully aware of your inner torchlight and all the dazzling powers you possess. These “boys,” whoever they may be, will be struck by your aureole and their only response will be to marvel at the rays emanating from every part of who you are.

Years in the future, I pray we see them all, I know I’ll always be able to find you in class photos, at birthday parties, in any crowd anywhere in the world. The blaze of whorls around your face will act as your flare, signaling me to where you are. And every few days, at least while you’re little, I know you’ll eventually let me win as I pull my fingers full of conditioner through your thick, curly hair.

Celesté Cosme has been teaching high school English for 16 years. She received her MFA from Rosemont College. She is the CNF editor at Philadelphia Stories. Her essays and stories appear in Pangyrus, South Florida Poetry Journal, (Mac)ro(Mic), ROVA, and Rathalla Review. She lives in New Jersey with her filmmaker husband, curious six-year-old, and tuxedo cat Rembrandt. You can follow her on Twitter @celestemaria or read her works on celestecosme.com.