My sister stands behind me. I sit on a black folding chair. My head bobbles as she pulls my “friends” out of my hair. Even with her skills, it is still a daunting task and not for the faint of heart. She lathers in some special cream that only Empire students can buy. She rakes the comb down my scalp.

My sister shakes her head. “I don’t know why you didn’t ask for my help,” she says under her breath. Everyone has asked if I need help: my sister, my mom, even co-workers nag me about my hair and why I don’t take care of it. I remain quiet because I am ashamed. I am ashamed of lying in bed for days at a time, afraid of what the world thinks of me, with the only friends wrapped in my hair. Clingy, selfish friends.

My sister splits my hair and yanks out another clump made from split ends and conditioner flakes. “I had no choice. I had to do it.” She doesn’t realize her hair pulling makes my head ten times lighter.

She makes a comment that frightens me. “You should’ve told me sooner. You are not supposed to put products in knotted hair. It can create mold.”

Mold.

I felt angry at myself. How did I let my damaged thoughts rule me? Rob me of my motivation, steal my sleep, latch only my scalp and these annoying little friends.

When my sister pulls out the last friend who made an effort to stay, she demanded I go back into the shower where she teaches me how to wash my hair. Not slap soap on my head but massage it in. Let the conditioner soften the strains of my hair. Use my fingernails, get into crevices on your head.

I follow her instructions. There is no class in need to hurry for; there was no one to impress. No deadlines or due dates in the near future. Putting myself first, that is all I care about in the moment.

My sister comes back and says, “Does your hair feel silky smooth?” I let my fingers caress my black waterfall. I wind them into the cascading silk ringlets. It has been awhile since I felt this texture.

Maybe this is healing.