As a kid I dreaded the days I had to get my hair braided
It would be a Saturday morning, and my mom would
Have just washed my hair the night before.
The washing was the fun part;
I would crouch over
the kitchen sink and as she
And I gossiped and traded stories,
She shampooed and conditioned
The weeks grease and tangles away.
And I remember her hands gently caressing
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And massaging my scalp as she combed.
It always put me to sleep.
And the mornings after,
As I rose with the sun,
She carried me over to The Hot Chair.
See, we came to name it that
Because of the way our bums burned
After hours of doing hair.
And although I’m much older now,
And I braid my own hair,
My hands don’t feel the same as hers
And my reflection isn’t as chatty
