Two-Bit Story:

“Stop screaming bloody murder!” my mother shouted.
“No, please… Not Todaaayyy.”

As a child, there was one thing I hated more than anything else. One thing that would make me cry, go limp so no one could pick me up to move me. The thing I dreaded more than anything was getting my hair washed…by my mom.

There was no tenderness in the act. Washing hair was just another chore to complete in her non-nonsense, slightly aggressive way, the same way she scrubbed the floor or did the laundry. I’d lie across the faux marble Formica bathroom counter, my head bent backward in the sink bowl, the metal side of the bowl digging into the back of my bare neck. I felt trapped, claustrophobic, like I had lost agency.

She’d pour water from the pink bathroom cup over my hair and scalp, not bothering if it got in my ears, no paying much attention to the water temperature unless I complained. Then she’d cover my hair with Herbal Essence shampoo and scrub, scrub with her strong housewife fingers, scrub with her nails, until my entire body jiggled back and forth with the effort, like those massage chairs at the mall. No matter if her diamond wedding ring caught in a snarl, she’d continue on, tugging my head left or right with the effort. I’d lie across the countertop, each muscle tensed stiff as a board, my toes curled, my face scrunched in a grimace.

“Stop making that face!”
“It hurts…you’re pulling my hair.”
“Lie still.”
“But—water’s in my ear!”
“Then stop struggling!”

Then she’d rinse the shampoo from my hair until the tangled mess squeaked when rubbed. Cream rinse—that’s what we called conditioner in the 1970’s—was an adults-only luxury, Mom decided. Besides, the quicker I was off the autopsy slab, the better for me.

But conditioner helps with the next part. And without it, this second part of the process wasn’t any better. She’d use a comb to bushwhack through the knots and tangles, leaving what felt like half my hair in the comb and a bloody scalp.

The topic came up at a parent-teacher conference. I wasn’t in the room, but my mother told me she asked my second grade teacher, Mrs. Wroten. I imagine the exchange went something like this:

“I don’t know what to do with her about the hair,” she said. “She has a meltdown when I say it’s time. You’d think I was chasing her with a branding iron. The neighbors must think I’m killing her.”
“What would happen,” Mrs. Wroten asked, “if Julie washed it herself in the shower?”
“She’s seven.”
“She’s old enough.”
“And if she doesn’t wash it properly?”
“Then you check it and she learns.”
“She makes it such a production. I can’t deal with a production. It’s ridiculous.”
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Wroten said, “children want a little ownership.”
“Fine,” my mother responded. “We’ll see.”

Oh, dear Mrs. Wroten, 2nd grade teacher and my personal patron saint of hair care.

I started washing my hair myself later that week, without grumbles or incident, used cream rinse, combed through my own snarls, and eventually started using a spray-in conditioner called No More Tears.

Damn right… no more tears indeed.

Two-Bit Recipe:

I created this easy, simple dip recipe for a recent mahjong night. It’s packed with flavor, the ingredients are a simple shopping trip to Trader Joe’s, and it makes just enough for a small gathering, but can also be doubled or tripled for larger get-togethers.