PEOPLE ISH: HER HAIR

ORANGE HAIR

   I could start with her ready smile or no, maybe her smell; that fruity smell that I am sure she discovered and couldn't let go off for what? I'm assuming five, six years now; she seemed so poised, like someone might want to hurt her and she was staying ready for it.

  It was this poise that made me walk up to her the first time, a nudge nudging, "She just might be woke," pulled me. Turned out she was.

  I greeted her back, the normal, half-swaggering, half-casual "How far?" Which she did an about-face to, her face older than what I thought I saw from afar. My greeting was inappropriate.

  I began to fidget, she mercifully flashed a smile, I smiled back.
 "How are you?" She asked, "I'm fine, I'm Miracle,"  I remember saying.

  You're watching the game? Why were you smiling like that? How come you don't wear earrings?...all these questions, I itched to ask this free spirit. She said her name.

  "So, um..." She started to say and stopped, I had approached her, she wanted to know why. I told her, "Amara, I just saw your hair and..."
It works almost everytime (except with especially difficult to warm up people), just leaving a non-confrontational sentence hanging, she said more than I was thinking about the hair; her scent hitting me at random intervals coming in with cool breeze.

  "My hair? It's spongy, natural, you know without relaxers." I nodded, I knew.
  "Is it not hard to comb?" I teased, she smirked.
"It's the way God made it, it's easy to comb if you put water in it before combing," I raised an eyebrow to that, "Is it?" I asked. We turned away from the football match, she turning first.

  "Why would I go through all that trouble?" She arched her own eyebrow to my question then she articulated slowly letting me know she thought I was a bit retarded, "Because it's easy doesn't make it right, bae, you're killing the hair. Your hair is alive you know. "

from Shutterstock

  #YourHairIsAliveUKnow sounds like a catchy mantra for a go-kinky campaign.

  I laughed a short laugh. She laughed wildly. Her afro catching the sun as she threw her head back.

Explaining her laugh while still shuddering from it, "I just scolded you and you laughed in my face, been long I found someone who takes stuff that challenges their values with grace," she assumed I did not like kinky hair. "My hair is natural too,"  I asserted,  she looked at my braided extensions, then at me, suspicion flitting her face for a moment, then she asked me tauntingly, "Is it not hard to comb?" I laughed again, "It's not, it's usually moisturized"

  I was formulating something about one law I read about: the tignon law but she interrupted my "Have you heard about..." by demanding to know why I had asked her that: 'if her hair was hard to comb', I shrugged in response.

  An uproar left the crowd under the roof of the terrace, we were out of it, on the less centered, less populated, uncovered stand; it reverberated the building, she swirled quickly to the field and clapped, shouted, jumped all at once, almost knocking me down with her exuberance.

"Sorry," I acknowledged her less than hearfelt 'sorry' with mock shock on my face. She laughed again. Wild card. My greeting was totally appropriate, I thought.

  The game ended. People stayed back, some arguing it; some leaving in couples, slouching or stomping out, others just walking (supporters of no team, I guess, like me), we said our goodbyes, hers a very high pitched "Next time," mine a cool "Bye."

  I missed her, in retrospect I wonder if it's possible to miss someone one fell upon once.

  I stopped by the stadium several times hoping to see her, I did not.
  Time went by, I did not forget her.

  Until today. Now.
  Her smell lulls me from behind, I whip my head to see her at the tennis court, her thin frame in a blue sports wear, she smiles, this is what I miss, her simplicity and how she is able to just smile.

  She flexes her wrist, the racket making waves in the air as she moves towards me, drawling "Geh how far? E done tey..." I want to say, "I missed you," but I do not.

  Amara plays fiercely, her hair behind her sweat band. Amara wins and rushes to hug me, her smell now fused with a tang of sweat. It seems natural that she would hug me.

  If I could make Amara a color, it would be orange, the color her hair turns when invaded by sunlight.


 

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