Page 54 of Cruel Devotion

A boom sounded and then silence.

That must be the Four Aces setting up for the feast. You’re tripping, Moni, because you’re on edge.

I turned the shower back on.

Warm water spilled over me again. The space filled with the steady patter of liquid hitting the shower floor.

I tried to rationalize, telling myself that it must be the bustling preparations for the night’s event.

But something about that scream. . .

It didn’t quite fit the narrative I was trying to construct.

Forget about it and finish washing up.

I stepped closer toward the shower spray and tilted my head back, allowing the water to massage my scalp.

Next, I began to smear the fruity-smelling foam on my head.

Though once completely bald, now a faint layer of hair had started to sprout, making the sensation all the more noticeable.

It made sense. I typically shaved my head every other day to keep the smooth look. Clearly, I had been too busy.

My fingertips grazed my head, feeling the soft stubble that now peppered my skin. The budding hairs possessed a peculiar sensation.

It was like touching velvet.

Hmmm.

I gazed around the shower and didn’t see a razor.

I could get Chen to give me one tomorrow but. . .maybe it is time to let my hair grow back?

It would be a journey in itself, watching the transformation from bald head back to hair.

What would I even do with it now? It’s been so long since I’ve even had to pick up a brush or comb.

Steam wrapped around me, forming a warm embrace as I thought back to the pre-bald- headed years.

My hair—much like chapters in a book—marked significant periods of my life.

I could never forget the hot comb.

As a little kid, those Sunday afternoons before the new week, when my mother would place that metal comb on the stove,waiting for it to heat up. Grandma was alive then, and even my aunt—Bank’s mother would be there gossiping about this or that.

I could still hear the sizzle as she ran it through my hair, transforming my tight curls into straight strands.

The process was almost ritualistic.

Surely, it was bonding time, moments where life lessons were shared, and family stories passed down.

Every stroke of the comb not only shaped my hair but also molded my young mind.

Then, junior high hit, and it was time for a new hairstyle—a new me.

I remembered the smell of the chemicals from the relaxers, the creamy texture, and the burning sensation if it stayed too long.

The first time I had my hair permed, I felt such a transformation.

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