Wash Day
The first step is always denial. Begins with the itch, kneeling against the temples like a ghost, begins with those icy fingers wrapped around the coils. You’ll tell yourself another day won’t hurt. Another day of hiding behind that high puff will go unnoticed by your silk heads. They don’t know that this increased volume, this bush, this crown, is screaming for some moisture. In lecture hall last week, when that boy taps you on the shoulder, points upward, and tells you all five feet of your persons is blocking his view of the board, and when the girls next to him hiss and claw, apologizing profusely for his ignorance, you remember peering at the only other natural in the room. Remember the way the eyes danced? The exchange of grimaces? Because sure, the boy is right, but there is something magical about the brevity of it all; the way silk girls can turn those flecks of dandruff into black girl magic, all in the name of wokeness.
You’re thinking of this now as autumn pools the center of your dorm room. You’re thinking about the silent promise you made to both your campus sister and yourself as the soft hum of heater rumbles like the heartbeat beating against the chest. You are thinking of the unwatched lectures, the readings, the essays who’ve colonized your little desk. You’re thinking about the awkward dining hall gap—those moments suspended between two and five, the counters bare ‘cept floppy slices of pizza. And of course, you’re thinking about your orgs: the meetings for the academic, but also for the leisure. You’ve never realized how different demographics of people prioritize time so differently. Back home:
Sundays were for washing
Saturday was for thinking about Sunday.
Fridays were for thinking about Sunday.
Thursdays were for thinking about Sunday.
Wednesdays were for thinking about Sunday.
Tuesdays were for thinking about Sunday
Mondays were for thinking about Sunday.
Sunday was for thinking about Sunday.
But silk never needs to think about Sunday. Silk lathers and drains, twenty minutes or less. Silk never has to think: write my essay or wash my hair? If I start now, the braids should only take two—maybe three days max…The way water wraps itself around those coils. Wash and Go? You choke back a laugh—your roommate meets your eye from across the room. Careful, you don’t want your thoughts to rent the air, so you clear your throat as if it’s the glass between your palm that has brought you joy. Quickly, before morning ages, there are decisions that need to be made! The internet whispers hacks, the tips, exposes the pathway towards ease. Wash Day. Not to be confused with conceit, your hair is not just an accessory. Your hair is politics, your hair is love, your hair is fashion, your hair is survival. Wash Day. For you, there is a blocked moment, once a week, where you are forced to revisit yourself—the mirror a time-lapse for reflection, the water a kiss, the shampoo a moment to drain the bad, the conditioner a sealer for joy. So what does it mean when this space forgets this day belongs to you. And every preceding day afterwards is meant for thinking about this space that belongs to you. Imagine the email to your professor:
You: Dr. X, I need an extension on the midterm. Today is washday.
Dr. X: Request granted, looking at that dry head has been making me itch.
Now smile again, because this is a cultural thang. Because this is a, self-care isn’t always pink, sometimes its tugging too hard because your arms hurt from combing, apologizing to the scalp because now ain’t the time to go bald thang; a sometimes self-care looks like beads of sweat forming not because of the plastic bag around your temples, but rather exhaustion from dodging silk glances, laced with confusion thang. Or maybe some days it’s simply a survival thang.
Out the corner of your eye, your roommate jumps from her bed, asking if you want to accompany to the dining hall. Your hunger makes its mind for you—because one more day couldn’t hurt…right?