Wash Days by Lucía Brea Sundays were wash days for my mom and me. Our sacrament. Like a prayer, demanding of our time, patience and devotion. We shared coils like springs that go down our backs. We shared similar hair textures, though mine spunkier. During the week, my hair would be dressed differently, it had many lives. Mondays, pressed and suited for school. Tuesdays, a sophisticated ponytail swinging through the halls. Wednesdays, a single braid down my back, formal in the morning, straying by afternoon. By Thursday and Friday, it was braids and beads, of greens, oranges and bubbly blues. My hair had more personality than I did. Always kept neat until Sunday.
When you have curls like mine, you don’t wash your hair every day.
So Sundays were wash days for my mom and me.
Sunday mornings began with breakfast for five. We sat on the table, once a door, with plátanos, salchichón, and eggs. Common tablemates, los tres golpes . My parents’ mugs filled with cafecito , a thick espresso in random cups. The sounds of the bolero blaring from an old radio my dad pieced together. Ballads de amor, con perfumes de gardenias.
The music reminds me, Sundays were wash days for my mom and me.
Always last in the bathroom, my hair took the longest. Sitting in the tub, waiting for my mother to scrub and shampoo. Her nails worked like rakes thoroughly, tough and rough to get all the spots, never forgetting behind my ears. Not once, or twice but three times, for maximum suds. The first rinse felt like absolution, rinsing away the sins of sweat, struggle, and school scent. By then, my head was a super hero, a super knot. Coils clung to each other like family, holding tight.
HVWP COMMONPLACE 30
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