Devonne Brown

I never had a problem with my hair, but Mom was always messing with it. She never let me grow it long because “I couldn’t take care of it.” Truth was, she didn’t want to take care of it and said I was too lazy and inept to handle it, qualities I’ve fought off my whole life because of Mom and my hair. It’s sad to speak ill of the dead, but dammit Mom, you should have thought about that when you were always chopping and frying my hair with permanent waves I didn’t need. When you tell your kids they can’t do something long enough, they believe it. You didn’t want a princess, you wanted a guinea pig. 

My sister got to have long hair. She was way more apt than me. At six, her rats’ tails of stick straight, blond hair were a tangled mess around her neck. Not a  pony tail, pigtail, or braid, just a freaking mess, but she could take care of her hair and let it grow. You’ve been dead twelve years and three weeks and yes, I’m bitter about some things. Hair is just one of the conversations I know better than to start.

Dad’s been dead five or six years now and I can hear his exasperation with my whining over your little sister’s long hair. I sure as Hell won’t get any sympathy from him. Mom and Dad both are disgusted with me. Even in death I can tell. “For heaven’s sake. Are you going to let that bother you for the rest of your life? You grew your hair long later. What’s your problem other than you’re a belligerent, ungrateful kid who thought you knew more than you did about everything? You sure haven’t got over a lot of things that most people don’t let bother them. I’m glad I’m dead so I don’t have to watch you embarrass yourself and your boys further. So’s your mother,” said Dad. Even years beyond the grave his judgements stung.

“Dad, you’re impossible to live up to. Not even you can manage to do the stuff you did. I wondered, what would be my equivalent of cutting a dead person’s head of hair in a nursing home?  What deed could I do that would come close to that kind altruism? There’s no scale anywhere that measures that kind of service to mankind, but if there were, it won’t run nearly as high as Dad’s mark of good deeds. That was a big one. I’m not that great, and given the opportunity to handle the dead, as a part time gig, I think I would decline. That kind of goodness and light isn’t in me. I’ll never be good like that. I don’t want to. Send me to hell, but you stay on the other side of the fence for me so the boys don’t have to worry about measuring up to you any more. 

We have to find our own good to do in the world. I keep a blank piece of paper to  my right on my desk at school so I can make a quick note. The note is always the same, “Find the Good.” I write that every chance I get. It reminds me to think that good things might happen right before my eyes, and sometimes they do.