Braids And Bitches

    

    There was a time when I had long, wavy hair. My mother, enamored by Shirley Temple's looks, wanted me to have curls. Every night before I went to bed she put curlers in my hair.

     I was twelve at the time, ready to graduate from elementary school. I hated curls. I hated Shirley Temple and her influence on my life. What was wrong with naturally wavy hair?

     One night,  mother and dad were out. I decided to skip the curlers and  went to bed.

     I couldn't believe mother's reaction the next morning.

     “All right, young lady,” she scolded,  “ If you  can't have curls, you'll have braids.”

     Braids? That was for little kids. Mother had this obsession about combing my hair each morning.    This particular morning I felt she was out for revenge. I had defied her and she had no intention of letting me get away with it.

     “You just come into the bathroom, “I'll show you.”

     “Ouch,” I yelled several times. She braided my hair so tightly I felt like the roots were being pulled out.

     When she had finished I looked in the mirror, mortified at what I saw. How could I face my friends looking like Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farm?

     No amount of pleading would make mother relent, so off to school I trudged.

     As I walked down the hallways of  my school, I imagined all eyes were staring at me. How ridiculous I must have looked. What twelve year old wore braids?

     Suddenly a voice behind me asked, “Audrey, is that you?”

     I whirled around, feeling my face flush. It was my teacher, Mrs. McDonough. I wanted to evaporate on the spot.

     She smiled. “You look so grown up I thought you were one of the high school girls from upstairs.”

     She softly touched one braid. “You know, braids are all the rage right now.”

     As she continued down the hall, a grin played  at the corner of my lips. Even if she was just trying to be nice, it was a lovely gesture and made a tortured day easier.

    Even after I graduated and married, we kept in touch by mail. I'm not sure why, except for the fact that I liked her and she was a great teacher. So I sent Christmas cards, pictures of each new child, and an occasional note. When she died her daughter sent me a letter.

   “Thank you so much for corresponding with mother all through the years. She so looked forward to your letters and cards.”

     A gesture of kindness made a young girl's day. As an adult, I like to think that I somehow  made her days a little happier too.