A Woman's Glory

My mother’s hair falls down her back, like waves of amber, ebbing and flowing till it reaches her waist. It drinks the warm rays of the sunlight, gently swaying in the breeze. I run up behind her, and press my face into the locks. They brush my cheeks, soft like the tufts of dandelion clutched in my tiny hand. I watch Father tuck a strand behind her ear as their foreheads touch, and I smile. 

My hair falls around my shoulders, flaxen strands curling this way and that, like a bird’s nest. It is woven with grass, and strands of clover flowers. The wind whips it about my face, stinging my nose and the tender curve of my neck. I lie down on the blanket, resting on Mother’s lap, and feel the gentle tug and pull of her fingers. The tangles and knots are undone at her touch.

Grandmother’s hair is pulled up tight, carefully wrapped around her head, like a hive. Black pins show their tips against the silver strands that are sprayed into place, smelling of floral solvent. I watch her carefully tease the roots, scraping and scratching with bristly combs, till the fine strands that beg to lay gently against her scalp extend voluminously upward. She removes her housecoat, and carefully slips the dress over her head. The dress reaches down, her hair reaches up.

My auntie’s hair hugs her face. It hugs her ears, and the nape of her neck. Tiny strands, like wisps of straw, pale and golden. I can see all of her face. I can see the rings that dangle from her earlobes, and the blush that tints her cheeks with a shade of rose. When her head turns, the rings clink against one another, like the soft bells of a windchime. The other women stare, but Auntie looks right at them, and then they look away.

Cousin’s hair is dark, with tips that curl like fallen leaves, reaching in to themselves. She grips the strands, and drags her brush through, pulling the oil from root to tip till it shines. It’s not as long as Mother’s, even though they are the same age. There is jealousy in her whisper. She scolds as Mother weaves a braid through my unruly tangles. I hear her voice, but the words are not her own. Cousin has simple thoughts, with simple words. These words, I do not understand.

 “Women should dress modestly, not with braided hair…” 

My sister’s hair is long and straight, the color of acorn and honey. It pours down her arms, pooling at her elbows. It feels smooth, like velvet. No tosses or turns in the night can divert the path of her locks. They resist the curls my own eagerly embrace. Mother gathers the strands around Sister’s ears, and pulls the hair back, restraining it amid metal clasps topped with bows of lace. The white lace floats like a water lily amid the cascades of her hair.

Miss Lois’s hair is gray and coily. Tight rings press against her head, barely reaching past her ears. She doesn’t use pins, or bristly combs like Grandmother. But her hair also smells of lavender, and feels like wool. I can see all of her face, too. Her skin is brown, and soft, lined with age that shows when she smiles and frowns. She pulls me close, and holds me tight. Sometimes too tight. But there is always love in her voice.

Kenya’s hair is black, and kinky. Sometimes, it is braided, and close to her head, twisting till it gently lays at her shoulders. Sometimes, it is fluffed and round, like a chef’s toque. Sometimes, she gathers it into clusters, knotting each one into a small bun. I don’t know what her hair feels like. But I think it’s beautiful. And I try to tell her as often as I can.

Avery’s hair is the color of autumn, shades of red and orange and burgundy in the shifting light. It spirals in ringlets around her green eyes, its brilliant tones heightened against her pale skin. Freckles dot the rise of her cheekbones. As I look at her, I feel my first touch of envy. 

My hair falls down my back, a testimony of thirteen years. It ambles along, almost reaching my waist, heavy with daily washes and nightly brushing. I run my fingers along the strands, voices filling my head. Complex words and complex thoughts that I struggle to understand.

“But since it is disgraceful for a woman to cut off her hair or shave her head, let her have long hair.”

My hair falls down my back, unfurled from an elastic band, as I slide into the stylist's chair. She smiles and asks me what I want. My answer startles her. I gasp as she makes the first cut, and she hesitates. But I do not move. I listen to the sound of her scissors, opening and closing on the long, tangling strands, bringing the nesting curls closer and closer to my chin.

My hair falls to the floor.

I can see all of my face. 

The other women stare, but I look right at them, and they frown. Their scowl makes me wonder, how you look at me now. Did something change between us? Was our tether so fragile it was cut that day I sat in the chair? My family scolds, confusion in their whispers.

“But if a woman has long hair, it is a glory to her, for her hair is given to her for a covering.”

Their fear makes me wonder, how you speak of me now. Their faith in me is so fleeting, it shakes from the force of strands hitting the bleached tiles of the salon. I do not seek glory. I do not desire loud praise. No. I long for a whisper that will affirm in my mind what my soul already knows. 

My hair grows. Sometimes I cut it. Sometimes I do not. Sometimes, I braid it. Sometimes, I let the wind take hold, and toss it to and fro. Sometimes it is sandy, like the line of coast that receives the ocean, wave after wave. Sometimes, it’s red, like the autumn I longed for, colors changing with the season, both without and within. 

And I rest in the confidence of your promise.

“Man looks at the outward appearance, but I look at the heart.”