Rooted

For me, getting my hair done has always been more than a beauty ritual — it’s a reunion with the parts of myself I once thought I lost.

The air smells like oil and warmth —
coconut, shea, and a hint of something floral
that clings to my skin like memory.

She hums low — a sound older than language —
fingers parting my hair like she’s reading scripture.
Her hands move slow, steady, sure,
like she’s braiding generations back into me.

I sit in her chair,
the cape crinkling as she parts and smooths.
The flat iron whispers — a soft hiss,
like incense curling through the air.
Steam rises and fades,
and I can almost see my reflection
becoming clearer in the mirror.

When I was little,
my mother’s hands were loving
but foreign to my texture.
She tried her best —
apple-scented detangler, wide-tooth comb,
tears neither of us could explain.
Her love was real,
but her touch didn’t speak the language of my curls.

For years, I thought my hair was the problem.
Too much. Too big. Too different.
I learned how to shrink myself
before I ever learned how to stretch my coils.

But this —
this chair, this woman, this ritual —
feels like homecoming.
She calls me Mads,
and something in me unclenches.
The way she pulls, oils, presses, and trims
feels like repair — not just of hair,
but of history.

The scent of burnt oil lingers sweet in the air.
The hum of the dryer behind us,
the rhythm of her breathing,
the soft weight of her hand on my shoulder —
they quiet the noise in my head.
Every sense sings the same truth:
you are cared for. you are seen.

She tells stories —
about her children, her faith,
the way Black hair remembers everything.
I listen, half-dreaming,
while her voice moves through me like a lullaby.

When she finishes,
the mirror doesn’t startle me.
It feels like recognition.
My reflection looks like someone I’ve been
waiting years to meet.

“Look at you,” she says.
“Beautiful, Mads.”

And for the first time,
I believe her.