A Kind of Paradise

A Kind of Paradise.

The tug on my head as my mother slowly drags the bright red wide-toothed comb through my hair parting it into neat little rows like the Texas fields she once worked. And now the brush glides smoothly across the surface catching all my rebellious flyaways — especially that ragtag bunch at the base of my neck. “Thas the kitchen” she whispers. I giggle. My eyelids grow heavy. The small fan is no match for a week of August’s triple digits. I drift away on the softness of her voice and the hypnotic tingle of my now sweetly aching head. I snap back abruptly when my scalp stretches under the push and pull of my hair in her callused hands. No tender heads here. My shoulders drop and yield against the assertive pressure of her thighs. The cream colored silk slip peeks out from beneath her khaki colored a-line skirt. Grasping a bushel of hair at my crown she guides my head side to side a few times to check her handiwork. I close my eyes again saturated in dense tuberose and peachy notes of her Sand & Sable perfume. The faint musk of her most secret self. The green bergamot Blue Magic hair grease now covering her hands, my head, my neck. The desperate whirrrrrrrrr of the fan.

For a moment I wish my hair could grow faster than her bleached out palms could travel it’s length.