A smooth harmony floated throughout the living room. The woman’s soft tune was periodically accompanied by the lilt of her daughter’s voice and the hum of the music as they took their respective places on the couch and the clean hardwood floor. Surrounded by the comfort of their living room, the pair continued their duet as the mother reached for the hair brush set beside her. This had become a ritual for the duo, to sit together every few nights and begin to untangle the dark curls that sat unruly upon the young girl’s head, just as Carol’s mother had done for her as a child. She remembered how close she was with her mother during these moments, spending time with her and feeling her hands delicately handle her long sleek hair. Now she carries with her this tradition, bestowing on her daughter the same happy memories she once experienced. 

The song continued until its melody seeped into the very air, sweetening the atmosphere that surrounded them. One hand cradled the hair brush while the other held a wild patch of hair. She was taught to separate the hair into different layers and to make sure it was moisturized before combing through it, but she hated having to break apart the knots and she hated the way her hands pruned. Nonetheless, for the sake of her child she made sure to have a spray bottle at hand and curl cream in reach. 

Her husband often offered to do their daughter’s hair as he had more experience with the curl pattern, as if she was incapable of doing hair. Her mother did it for her and she always said she would do it for her own daughter; even though maintaining such dense and curly hair was difficult, she refused to give up on that process. Carol gently started brushing from the bottom, working up to the root before separating another layer.

Sprayed it. Worked in cream. Combed. 

A process she’s had eight years to nail down. Eight long years of this routine. Sometimes she wished the child had inherited straight hair. Long and fluid hair like she had — however, fate had bestowed upon the young girl her father’s coils. A deep and messy dark color much unlike her own pure blonde. 

Her grip tightened. She separated more hair. 

Carol had always wanted to be a mother, she was raised to be a good Christian woman. The day her parents found out she was pregnant out of wedlock, they told her to make sure she married the man as well. Then they told her to get rid of the baby as soon as they found out who the father was. Told her it wasn’t too late to make better decisions. But she loved her husband, loved the child they created, her precious family. Sometimes though, she wondered what her family would have looked like if she had gotten with someone her parents approved of. A man of a pale complexion with tame hair. Oh, how lovely her daughter would have been then. Just like herself. Carol shook her head, she loved her family. 

The girl before her started to squirm, whining out a comment about how it hurt. Carol, the good and caring mother she was, loosened her grip and once again began to comb starting from the bottom. She sang out an apology and leaned down to place a kiss upon the child’s forehead in a successful attempt to placate her. The brush came to a knot and her daughter again began to wiggle in pain, this was her least favorite part. Carol once again began to console the child, and apologized once more before using the brush to rip through the knot. Her daughter cried out and tears welled up in her eyes before she shut them tightly, this happened often. Carol paused her task to remove the small clump of hair that was caught in the brush, tossing it to the floor to clean later.

If her genes had more strength, maybe this would have been a more easy and enjoyable process. She didn’t like to think this, but sometimes the thoughts consumed her. How easy and perfect her life could have been. How pure and clean. Without having to sweep up hair from the floor every time she combed her daughter’s hair. She separated another section. In anger, Carol started from the top this time, dragging the brush from the roots to unknot the hair in one swoop. Instead, the girl’s head yanked back painfully, the brush only making it an inch from the scalp. Her daughter screamed, tearing away from her mother’s grip and looking behind her in shock. Carol once again apologized. 

After giving the girl a moment to recuperate, she once again settled in front of her mothers legs to have the style finished. Another layer. More water. More cream. Pruny hands. The brush slipped from her hands, clattering to the ground with a bang that soured the ambience of the room. A bitter look took over Carol’s face, her daughter reached for the item. 

She could have married a respectable man. Her parents advised her to do so. She had the beauty and the background to do so, to continue her clean bloodline, but instead she fell in love; fell in love with a tainted man. Now her hands were always pruny and slimy. 

She yanked the girl back by the hair, snatching the brush away from her hands. Returning to the patch she was on, Carol ignored the complaints coming from the child and once again harshly ran the comb through. The body in front of her reached back to rub her head, but Carol smacked her hand away so she could do it again. 

This time the girl tried to crawl away, trying to get away from her mother. Carol grabbed at the curls once more, tugging them violently. Her hand pulled back revealing multiple strands of hair and the child continued to writhe in pain. These cursed locks ruined her perfect family.

Her daughter could have been beautiful, she could have dealt with the dark skin and barbaric features if only the hair was straight. But instead it was a mane of tangles, always tangles. How her perfect life was ruined, she’s gone eight years dealing with this awful hair. Dropping the brush, Carol used both hands to pull at the hair while her offspring screamed in agony, clawing at her the offending hands. If she ripped all of these curls out, the child could start over. Regrow the hair so it was perfect. Straight. Pure. 

Blood prickled the scalp of the being in front of her, small hands hit her arms and legs in bruising punches. 

It was all her husband’s fault, he tainted his child with this horrible disease, this — this ugly curse. The damned soul in front of her flailed helplessly but Carol would help it, free it from its maledictions. She persisted with her mission, now passionately tearing at the hair with the intention to clear them from the soul’s shell. 

A sudden and familiar sound rang from behind the front door. Keys jingling. The devil was here. 

Her actions paused to focus on the sound, she was almost finished anyway. The lock clicked open, and the door swung on its hinges. It’s father stepped in, calling out lovingly with his horrid voice. Pausing in the living room, his eyes wide and scared. There the man looked upon the woman with horror. Begging her to stop with shaking hands. Her own palms soaked red. Pruny. All of a sudden it became clear, she was not in love. Rather she was destined to send this man to God so he could be purified. Once she finished this, she would be blessed with a beautiful daughter and an unafflicted husband. A perfect family.

The overhead light cast a shine to her bright hair, glowing in a halo of gold. Calmly she grabbed hold of the separating comb, holding it so the pointy end stuck out from her fist. A smile took over her face as she ran for the man.

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Cayla Koduah is a history major with an art history minor and professional writing minor at Fitchburg State University. She likes doing art and writing creative works in her free time. She enjoys going to museums and aspires to one day work in an art museum and write creative works on the side. This is her first publication.