Plait

My mother is sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her legs out in a V, her boar-bristle hairbrush (the same one she uses to hit me sometimes) in her left hand. I am sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor between her legs, my back to her. The sunlight streaming in through the panes of the window opposite highlights floating motes of dust, and makes me squint as she tugs on my hair.

I feel each stroke of the brush press into the front of my scalp, then work round to the nape of my neck, pass across the blank of her other hand, which rests between my shoulders, and slide on down my back, almost to my waist, then disappear to nothing. A little sensation of frisson runs back up my spine. Again and again, the strokes repeat, each tickling my scalp then tugging gently. Her right hand opens and closes between my shoulders, as the brush in her left passes through. Mother sings softly, almost under her breath, as she goes over each swathe twice — tug at the front…around…down…and the second tug with her off hand, as the brush comes up for another stroke. I close my eyes, and the sun makes red through the lids.

I hear the handle of the brush contact the wood floor, and the tugs get firmer, more assertive, as she divides my tresses into three and begins; the initial plait, very tight and uncomfortable, forces my gaze upward, but slacks off as she works her way down my neck, past my shoulders — 1–2-jerk, 1–2-jerk — as each plait is cinched, until her fingers reach the middle of my back and she stops, holding my braid firmly taught in her right hand. I hear the elastic snap as she binds the end, and feel one final frisson as she applies the brush to the bit of tail that protrudes beyond the band.

This is #11 in the Transitional Moments series.
#1: Livename, #10: Fish Sandwich

Special thanks to Miriam Suzanne for help with this story.

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