Nostalgie
By Nicole Gordon
Section into four parts: one half of my head a conglomerated mess, the other somewhat separated. Whitish scalp in comparison to the rest of my dark skin; dark locks shade my skin from the sun, protecting it from harmful rays.
Feel the comb’s teeth vibrate against skin, reverberating throughout the skull. Feel how it tickles, how it numbs, how it soothes as it glides down
down
down
Until shivers creep up
up
up
my spine.
The process is simple: take two strands within a sectioned part and twist. Fingers weave while hair twirls and swirls and prances as if on a ballroom floor. Pause for a moment while fingers swipe gel down the strands to strengthen, solidify, yet transform the wildness into something far more meek.
It alters. Reconstructs. Into a form that I cannot recognize when I stare at myself in the mirror. Gone is the fluffed out mane; in its place is its pseudo form.
Momma’s fingers are swift and smooth, tightening my curls into tight spirals that rest against my head. One section done, three more to go.
Holding down the strands are yellow rubber bands — my color of choice, of course — that allow the twists to float and move freely every time I toss my head back and forth like the people in the movies. And I do: I have mastered the art of turning my head to the side, imaging silky tresses following every motion. Like my friends in kindergarten. Like the girls in Sunday school.
While Momma works magic, I close my eyes and pretend. Pretend my skin is three shades lighter. What would I look like? Would I have blue eyes? Green? Hazel? For once, something other than the muddied brown. Maybe I would look just like Sara and her twin. Maybe I’d look like everyone else.
Sometimes I get tired of being the one who stands out.
Section three is done; one last one to go.
Momma told me the other day that there is this thing called a perm. What that means, I have no idea. All I know is that it makes your hair straight and long and silky, like the women on TV. I think about this kind of thing a lot, even though I am only six and Momma tells me I am beautiful just the way I am. So does Daddy. And I believe them, I think; at least, most of the time.
But I see the way people look at other people who are my color. I see how they look at Momma, too. It’s hard for me to tell what they’re thinking: do they stare because of our skin? Do they whisper because of that stupid [except it’s not stupid because that’s a bad word] curl that no gel can keep in place?
The final rubber band snaps, and the last lock falls against my neck. Eyes open, I clamber off the floor and rush to the bathroom. Fingers pressed against the mirror, I lean forward until my nose touches the glass. Breathe in.
Practice the hair toss and watch my hair move with every fluid motion. Imagine my hair is blond like Emma’s in class and that the twists are not actually twists, but actual tresses that cover the back of my neck and flow down past my shoulders just like a waterfall. Think about what it must be like to blend in with those around me; what it feels like to not be aware of my skin or how frizzy my hair will be tomorrow.
Try to remember what Momma and Daddy says: to know my self-worth. To know who I am. But I am only six years old and I don’t even know what self-worth is.
Breathe out.
Watch my breath create little clouds and dissipate; marvel at the little lines my fingers create as I press my hands against the glass over and over again.
Nicole Gordon was born and raised in West Africa. Nicole is a behavior therapist and works with children with neurodevelopmental disorders by enhancing emotional regulation and social skills. She began writing at the age of ten, and her piece “Momma hasn’t felt safe since June of 2016” was published in December 2021.
