Crafted beauty #5: Tending, tenderly

A shared memory of black femininity.

La tresse des cheveux by Momar Ndiaye

My friend and I arrived at “the artists’ village” in Dakar when the sun had already gone down, when all it left was little shadows in the yard. We were sure that no one remained, especially on a Sunday, till we were beckoned by a tall, dreadlocked artist with a broad smile. The taxi driver, an old man in his aged yellow car, feigned patience, turning off the engine. We went with the artist to his workshop, marvelling at the different pieces, asking questions, but gulping down the guilt of knowing we would leave there empty-handed. We continued through the grounds, met by lights from some open studios, scared to pop our heads in, to distract those who were hard at work. There was a man who smoked outside his studio and only communicated in soft nods and hard glances as we crossed the threshold. We went into different spaces, side-stepping paint buckets and tarp, crinkling our noses at the strong smell of the acrylic, focussed on the art. And then we entered another, sure we would leave the same way: grateful, inspired, but with nothing to show for it. Until I looked up and saw this painting. I recognised it immediately, felt my form bend and become the girl in the piece. Felt my hair loosen, ready to be braided. Felt hands on my head, and remembered those days at home with my beloved aunty sitting behind me. Felt the words I had written in a poem about this seep into the forefront of my mind. And this is when I knew I had to have it. To be able to look at it and feel all these same, precious things. To recognise myself in it, and the one who sat behind me.

Here is the poem I had written, just a few months prior to finding this piece. Doubtless, it was still on my heart:

I remember what it felt like 
To have you touch my hair,
A hand I didn’t have to swipe away, 
A hand that belonged there more than mine, 
That understood exactly how to tend to it.

I would sit between your legs, 
My arms propped on your thighs,
My head bent at an awkward angle, 
Feeling you draw ruler-straight lines 
With the cutting comb, 
Shifting away stubborn strands 
And sealing it with Vaseline. 

Then you would get to work 
While I squirmed, 
Kneading at my thick roots, 
Weaving tufts of hair, 
Pulling them tight in hopes 
That they would grow longer. 

And when I got used to the pain, 
The sameness of it, 
The feeling of your hand working 
My scalp into submission, 
I would start to battle sleep, 
And somewhere in the daze, 
You would gently move my head 
To get to the other side. 

The mirror always made me smile. 
My hair, more stubborn than me, 
Was brought to order by your patient hands,
Every other week of my youth.  
You would tug at the plaits 
And check where they reached, 
Refusing my insistent pleas 
To loop them over with beads,
Telling me while you held my shoulder 
That I was “a big girl now”.

A big girl now. 

But still, I miss what it felt like 
To drop my world at your feet,
On those Sunday afternoons, 
To focus on the distant sound of your laugh, 
With my ear cupped against your leg, 
To have you cover my hair, my life, 
With your palms, and hold me still,
Till you let me go with a smile, 
Telling me I was beautiful. 

I miss your hand on my hair,
And so much else. 

I realise that many of us have versions of this memory; can insert ourselves into the frame and the words, perhaps with a beloved aunty or mum. Many of us can nod our heads and say, “yes, I remember, I was there, I felt it too.” And this is one of the reasons I love art in all its forms — Because it’s mine, yes, but it’s also yours.

Dedicated to the one who sat behind me.

And here, a plea: I would be grateful if you could support my art by sharing this page with someone you think would enjoy it. Thanks xxx

Prompt:

What feelings or memories does hair evoke for you? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.