(This was written on Feb 6, 2016.)
She watched me wash my hair the other day. I felt as if it were a black history moment because she’ll never know what it’s like to sit in between my knees and have her hair detangled. It’s not looking likely, anyhow. Her hair has big wispy curls that are easy to maneuver with a brush–no comb needed.
I’d love to know what she was thinking. Her eyes suggested that she had questions as I stood outside the tub and ran water over my soapy fro.
There is no one type of black hair. Between my mum, two sisters and I, our unprocessed hairs look quite different though we have the same gene stuff.
And now, as we drive home, we’re experiencing a rare occurance–me siting in the back seat with her. It’s the best way to get pesto gnoki and green beans into her 15-month-old mouth along with perfectly crisp green grapes. And she’s holding onto my thumb as I cup her hand in mine.
What else will I pass along?