Page 55 of Cruel Devotion

The sleekness.

The way it swayed as I moved.

It had been a true departure from the tight curls I had been born with.

Permed hair was my first foray into maturity.

My rite of passage going from kid to pre-teen.

Dad was still with us then. Back then, Mom had extra money to send us to salons.

I remembered the countless hours of waiting for my turn, the scent of hair products, and the hum of the hairdryer.

High school triggered the era of weaves.

Oh, the versatility of it all!

Long, short, curly, straight— I changed my look as often as I changed my clothes.

It was thrilling and gave me a taste of what it was like to be someone else, even if only for a little while.

But under those weaves, I sometimes felt I was hiding, concealing a part of who I truly was.

College came.

I got a scholarship and did a big chop on my hair, cutting it all off.

Freshmen year, I rocked a sassy afro.

Sophomore year, I shifted to braided crowns and Bantu knots.

Those were the days when I felt an immediate connection with my heritage, every style telling a different story, a different chapter of my life.

Then, mom got sick.

I dropped out sophomore year and returned home to help her with my sisters.

Hair and any other form of self-care took a backstage to my family.

But now. . .I have a house. . .I have a briefcase of money. . .I have time.

I rinsed the soap off my head and touched the short hairs again.

I smiled.

Dreadlocks? Twists? Or perhaps a short, curly afro?

So many thoughts spun in my head.

What would this new hair journey symbolize?

Would it be a resilience? Or a nod to rebirth?

As the droplets trickled down my head, Lei’s face flashed in my mind and all thought of hair vanished.

From our unexpected meeting, to now, it was all an adventure, throwing my once-predictable life into this whirlwind of chaos and emotions.

With him, every minute was unpredictable, and every hour brought with it new challenges and surprises.

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