Traces of Tresses

      Cradling a little girl, holding her close, she smiles as she brushes aside the child’s tresses from her eyes.  The hair grows thicker; baby bonnets trade in for headbands and bows.  Mom teaches her how to brush hair.  I can do this myself.  Many more lessons follow: hold your cup like so, slide your top shirt on like this, Play Dough is not for eating.  Dresses pair up with Cinderella slippers and a baseball hat. Don’t I look pretty?
      Ringlets are brushed before entering the first day of school.  Pigtails tiptoe into the classroom, upset but quiet when Mom abandons her to strangers.  Learn the alphabet; read your books; count your numbers.  I hate numbers!  Tap, tap, count five, six, seven, eight.  Brush your locks into a ballerina bun.  Twirl, plea, kick, leap, split.  Are we done yet?  Catch, hit, run. Throw the ball like this.  Brush your hair.  But I’ll be late!  Tuck tresses under the cap.  Hold the bat like so, swing like so, slip on your mitt like so.
      “Friends forever” doesn’t last long after grade school.  Contacts not glasses, fiction not friends.  Brush your hair to fit the clique.  Bleach and blend blond highlights to model the style.  Baseball then soccer, sporting a ponytail.  Brush your moppy hair, it looks horrible. I don’t want to brush; I like my hair like this. 
      Two things Mom wants her to be, she’s not: a dancer and popular. Brush your tresses; boys don’t like messy hair. Whatever mom.  Make-up becomes a mask.  Waxing a weekly ritual.  Brand labels are crucial.  A boy spots her beauty.  A first kiss follows.  He whispers, “I love you.”  Hands are entwined.  Stolen kisses wait for twilight. Everything is perfect.  Months pass; he leaves.  He cheated. Her heart crushes, leaving her gasping. Days locked in her room pass by.  Brush your hair, baby; life will go on.  But it won’t be the same.
      Hair is cut short, reflecting a new start.  Rebellion at home and school.  She erases society’s rules.  Brush your mane; others will think you sloppy.  I don’t care. Looks are superficial.  Friends become her escape from home.  A new boy enters.  He loves her with no make-up and hair wild.  The best boyfriend ever.  Joyous high school days.  Graduation time.  Brush your hair or we’ll be late!  Long hair flies with the wind.  Why did I brush it!  With diploma in hand she strides across the stage. 
      Packing is done.  Hugs and tears mark left-behind family, friends, and boyfriend.  Calls speed back and forth. Brush your hair.  Oh, Mother!  Newly-found independence brings release and responsibilities.  Wash whites, hang jeans, clean dishes, buy groceries.  Day one. Brush hair.  Weave French braid.  Squeeze in school.  Practice soccer.  Sweat and scraggly strands.  Braid falls out.  Homework overload!  Brush tresses.  Why bother?  Late nights, sugar rushes, football games, clubbing.  Blond highlights grow out.  Natural highlights return.
      Back home.  Family and friends reunite.  He’s there, too.  She loves him most. Hugs, kisses, laughter and love.  A knee bends.  A question asks.  Yes! Announcements print and invitations mail.  Bells ring.  Church fills; everyone sits.  Bride checks the mirror, glancing at her Mother.  Don’t brush your tresses.  You look gorgeous.  Sigh.