About a foot away from my desk, a picture of a young girl in braids hangs on the wall. She looks about seven years old. Like bangs, the braids are cascading towards her face and there’s a white and a red barrette hanging midway on two of the braids. Though I can’t see them, braids are also at the back of her head because against her little nape, I can see beads at the ends of her hair.


Hair grease and a kid in cornrows

The little girl that I see in the photo, that’s me. I was smiling from ear to ear. I doubt I was smiling about my hairstyle, but I was always happy to get braids. Nostalgia. I clearly remember how my mother would sometimes lay me down across her lap, horizontally, while she braided my hair. Something about that experience always made me fall asleep and when I woke; my hair was done and forehead slightly greasy. I haven’t smelled Royal Crown hair grease in so many years, but if I were greeted

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