French Braid

This morning, I French-braided my hair. Not so much for style as to temper my annoyance. Almost two months into lockdown, my hair is heavy and overly long, prompting me to worry at it. Throughout the day, while working on freelance projects at my computer, I tug hanks of it into knotty configurations, twirl strands around my index fingers, and run my hands through the tangled ends. Often, I end up with a handful of hair. The French-braid is a tidy, temporary solution to my compulsive attempts to lighten my mop. A gentler version of cayenne on cuticles.

Each time I French-braid my hair, I’m visited by the same childhood memory, of recess in the mid-1970s at my tiny Catholic school, when my best friend’s older sister, S, used to host what we might now call a pop-up salon, with a special focus on the French-braid. Shaded by a towering magnolia tree, a handful of girls would dutifully await their turns, seated on the cement foundation of a small building, torn down long ago. Situated on the fringes of the expansive, green schoolyard, the foundation had evolved into a multi-use meeting place — the safe point in a game of tag, a level spot for a cross-legged circle of friends, and, in this case, a waiting area to have your hair braided by S’s nimble fingers.

S had a niche talent for tackling hair that a less imaginative stylist would have deemed too short to braid. As a devotee of the wildly popular Dorothy Hamill haircut, I was especially enamored of S’s skills. In any other scenario, I would have been forced to wait months until my hair reached a sufficient length. But with S at the helm, I could experience stylistic variety, without abandoning the wash-and-go perfection of the Hamill.

When my turn came, I’d kneel in the grass, gladly tolerating the occasional fiery tugs required to knit my boyish do into something elegant. And French! The two tiny braids typically sprang free before the end of final recess. But not before I’d lapped the school yard many times, showcasing my tidy, streamlined hairdo, grâce à S and her nimble fingers.

Today’s braid, woven from an overabundance of hair, might be superior in form. But in spirit, it can’t compare to my schoolgirl coiffure of yesteryear.