I Will Build Mama a Salon

Mama’s ‘Bad Hair’ days are over

I remember this picture very well. It’s an old portrait with broken fragments. The eyes follow me everywhere. A memory that never fades.

Blurred illusions.

The dark twig on her head. It’s aged like the rest of her face. Now darker than the one I was used to — I’m not sure. It’s been refurbished several times, but it still fits. A retrofit. An old outfit.

Well, it hides what it’s made to hide — and augments Mama’s beautiful face, concealing her alopecia. Unmeant hair loss, partial or incomplete. A natural bald head. Not zoster. Not shingles. Just strings falling.

Mama hasn’t been to the salon in ages. She needs the salon. Every woman needs the salon. I think…

We’ve always prayed for the rain.

She wears an impulsive face. In my ideas. In my nightmares. In my recurrent images. In remnants of my ‘bad days’.

I take Mama’s bad hair. It’s just hair, they’ll say. It’s not just the hair, I’ll say. A bad hair day — Every day?

So, I shave bald. Each behind their own mask. My empty mask. You want to caress that head. Imagine good ol’ soap and water. Slippery. Now polished — with Arimis.

Grass tatters under her feet. Crackles and pops. It burns, too.

I cry when Mama hugs me. I taste the Saliva of God. This should be the rain. A drop of rain. Or raindrop sculptures. Raindrop showers et al. A shower.

Some petrichor. Blood of the gods. No, we call it the saliva of God.

We’ve always prayed for the rain.

When the rain comes, I’ll build Mama a salon.