by S.L. Jordan

There was a magic to it. I was certain.

Masterfully I dodged the students crowding into the hallway as I made my way to the locker room. Twisting and flicking my wrist the entire way. I had been practicing it for the last few weeks and now my wrist had a mind of its own. Twisting and twirling mid-air. So much so that James had to make a special class announcement last week.

“Are you practicing to be a magician?” he belted out during social studies.

The class broke out in laughter.

I cringed.

“Yeah,” I quipped back “trying to cast a spell that will make you stop belly flopping in the medley relay, and we MIGHT win for once.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh” the class cried in unison.

Terrell cupped his hands together and mimicked the flopping sound James made during the last swim meet. 

More laughter erupted from the classroom.

James slid down in his seat glaring at me.

“Alright. Calm down with all that racket,” Mrs. Wellington directed “and please stop doing whatever it is you’re doing Stephanie.”

I tucked my wrist under the desk but did not stop practicing.

I didn’t care about the jokes, I cared about getting it right I thought as I slid into the locker room with three minutes to spare before the bell, and like me, there were girls who had rushed from their last class to make it on time. Many of them were already dressed in swimsuits and were making their way to the mirrored wall.

I dropped my bags in front of the nearest locker and grabbed my caboodle before joining my classmates in front of the mirror. First things first. The time it took changing did not compare to the time it took to fix my hair. 

The mirrored wall is where we all stood and tried to stuff our hair under scarves before forcing a swim cap over our heads. Braids, straw sets, pin curls, and wraps. The styles were endless, but the priority the same – DO NOT GET YOUR HAIR WET! It was THE number one rule.

 I maneuvered my way to the corner near my best friend Brieshelle. Bri was the youngest of five girls. Her mother was a beautician, and every single one of her sisters knew how to do hair. It came as no surprise to any of us, that her hair stayed laid. Being the great best friend that she was, she had been trying to bring me over to her side for years. The side that cared. I cared, but just not that much. 

“Are you gonna need help?” she asked as she swiftly flicked her wrist around her head securing her thick hair into the perfect wrap with bobby pins.

I shrugged.

I didn’t used to be this girl. Last year, between track, softball and swim, I kept my hair in braids that were professionally washed and maintained every two weeks. 

Sometime during the past summer, things changed. Last year, I was a tom-boy who cared less about her hair, and more about making that run, finishing the race -on the track or in the pool, but all of that was before I got a wrap for the first time. Before I saw how beautifully my hair could frame my face, wrapping so smoothly along the lines of my cheek. The bouncy movement as I swung my head back and forth. I got my first perm in the sixth grade but kept it in braids or a ponytail because they were easier to manage. But I got my hair flat ironed for the first time a few months ago and it opened a whole new world for me. A world that deemed me and my hair acceptable. Cute, even. 

The attention I got one the first day of school?? It was unbelievable. The compliments from teachers, younger students …. from everyone, it felt different. Made me feel different. 

All those feelings have been pressing down on me. 

I shrugged again, shaking off those thoughts and focusing on the present and my hair. 

Bri just kept moving through her routine. She finished wrapping her hair and followed up with saran wrap before tying her scarf over everything. Triple protected. The saran wrap was new. We were experimenting on ways to keep water from seeping under our caps.

Starting on the left side, brush in my right hand I swept it counterclockwise around my head. I leaned forward in hopes of keeping my hair in place while I grabbed the plastic wrap. 

Bri grabbed both my hands.

 “Just stop” she said. 

I froze in place – leaning forward with my chin on my chest. I could feel her place a bobby pin at the nape of my neck and secure my hair. She continued along placing booby pins 3-4 inches apart. I peeked up in the mirror and could see the perfect swirl at the crown of my head. 

Once the bobby pins were in place, I could wrap my hair with the plastic and tie on my scarf. I used two swim caps, which made me look like a Cone Head. I wasn’t alone all our heads look misshaped, and it was something we were okay with as along as our hair came out dry afterwards. 

While the most of us were struggling in the mirror to protect our hair, the “Period Squad” would casually stroll through the locker room to the pool. Fully dressed. Hair in place. 

The “Period Squad” are the popular girls who had been welcomed into Women Hood, or “claimed” they had been. Every week there was some issue with their cycles, and they couldn’t participate in class that day. EVERY WEEK. 

They would sit on the bench along side the pool and watch as we tried in vain to complete the lesson while keeping our heads out of the water at the same time. They had decided that their hair mattered more than the class, and we were the foolish ones for not doing the same. We suffered while they chatted with their boyfriends from the sideline. 

Have you ever tried to swim and NOT put your head underwater? It’s almost impossible. 

Today was a free swim period, but I had a meet on Saturday. So, while the rest of the girls got to play in the shallow end I had to practice for Saturday’s meet. I was doing my best to keep most of my head out of the water when I heard the whistle.

“What are you doing?” Coach Winfield cried from the sidelines.

I stopped mid-stroke, hoping he wasn’t talking to me.

“WHAT IS THAT YOU ARE DOING?” He asked again, this time directly facing me. There was no room for misinterpretation. He was talking to me. 

“Practicing” I said meekly. All motion had stopped. Everyone was watching us. I could hear the “Period Squad” snickering from their bench.

We both knew I was not practicing. At least, not for Saturday. The breaststroke was not my race, but it was a stroke I could do and keep my head above water. 

“Not like that you aren’t” he said, “If you practice hard –“

“You play hard” I finished. 

“Well …..” he said.

I continued to gently tread water while he waited for an answer.

“My hair – …” I started.

“Oh NO, not you too!! Please say you won’t be joining THEM” he said as he gestured toward the “Period Squad”.

I kept on treading – gently. 

He went to retrieve the dive bricks and placed them at the edge of the pool.

I swam to where he stood glaring down into the pool. 

“Breath practice ….” He said and walked away.

Breath practice was the ultimate punishment. Not because I couldn’t do it, but because there was no way to do it and NOT get your hair wet. 

I stayed there in that spot staring at those bricks. I could hear the shrills of laughter from the shallow end – the free play my other classmates got to enjoy. Those girls didn’t have to pick between their hair and something else.

The irony of it all was I loved being underwater, I loved looking up and seeing the distorted view, the sound trying to break its way through the rippling water. There was a calm to it that I deeply loved.

But it came at a price. The price of social acceptability. 

I sighed as I reached up to grab the first brick.

Pulling it into the water, I inhaled as I let the brick slowly drag me to the bottom of the pool. I could feel the water as it started to seep my under cap, through the scarf and the final barrier – completely soaking my whole head.

From the bottom of the pool, I sat and watch the air bubbles float to the top – the only proof I existed underneath and came to the sinking realization that I too had made my choice.  

Author’s Note:

1. cue up India Arie’s, “I am not my hair”
2. followed by Solange’s, “Don’t Touch My Hair“
3. This is a snippet from Just A Girl From the East-side, A Collection of Short Stories