It’s just who she is

A Story About Love and a Woman’s Hair

Kristina combed back the tresses of her raven’s black hair. Long trails of thick, dark strands turned to locks, turned to a whole head of her life’s story. She’d never cut it. A choice of her mother’s that she adopted as her own. To comb it took nearly an hour and it had been years since she could manage it all on her own. Besides, she didn’t have to. Her husband Arnold was a man of few words, stern looks, and a mustache salt peppered above his hardened mouth. They’d met when he was 17 and she was 15. He knew soon on that he would marry her, the girl with the long black hair. She’d been taken by him soon enough, though she didn’t let on for some time. His nature was kind, his eyes were deep and thoughtful, and she liked that he didn’t have too much to say. Her mother’s approval was harder to earn. She was a particular woman. Kristina spent much of her life feeling as if she were her mother’s doll. She was dressed, she was combed, she was placed in this room or that, school, church, her grandmother’s house for tea. When she met Arnold, she saw a new place for her and a stronger set of hands to help her comb out the knots.

Kristina and Arnold were married when he was 18 and she was 16. A year later, their son Peter was born, the year after, their daughter Maria. Kristina’s hair continued to grow. Arnold helped her tend to it morning and evening. It was as much a part of their schedule as making breakfast and going to work. He never complained. They combed her hair and she was like a child again, careless in the nurturing of her keeper. To Arnold, it was like they’re wedding night every time he took the pins from her hair and saw it fall down her back. It was an intimacy they shared for decades.

Throughout the years, it was rare that Arnold was not there to help her with her hair and on such occasions, Kristina would call upon their children to assist her. As a young boy, Peter found his mother’s hair embarrassing. He didn’t understand why she would keep something so difficult to manage and freakishly strange. None of the other mothers had such long hair. He rarely agreed to help her with it and as a man, he believed she would be better off letting it go, cutting it, and freeing all of them from the responsibility. Maria loved to play with it as a little girl. She’d drape its pieces over her head and pretend it was her own. She’d alternate between characters of queens and beasts of the wild. As she got older, she simply agreed to the processes her mother’s hair required. The combing, the washing, the oils, and the intricate rolling and pinning of her mother’s daily styles. She wondered how her aging father managed to continue with this task on a daily basis, but she saw in his eyes the care he took for her mother, the tenderness in his hands while he separated and combed her locks, and she understood it as some kind of language between the two. At times she wondered which he loved more, Kristina or the hair.

Kristina worked from home as a seamstress. She fitted and formed the clothing of her friends, family, and ladies of the town. She sat at her sewing table, her hair reaching past her ankles. Sometimes her clients would ask her why she never cut it and she’d always say, “Oh Arnold would never forgive me”. When Arnold’s coworkers at the mill asked him about his wife’s hair, he’d say, “She’d never forgive herself for cutting it”. Nobody could really understand how someone could let their husband or wife do something so ridiculous, but neither Kristina nor Arnold really knew who they would be without her hair. They’d spent their whole lives together. Arnold, Kristina, and her hair.

It was on a particularly warm afternoon that Arnold passed away at age 73. He’d combed Kristina’s hair for the last time that morning. He’d placed her favorite ivory comb in the center of her magnificent folds, now an almost rhythmic pattern of black and silver, and he thought of the first time he’d laid eyes on her unusually long, dark hair. They were teenagers then, nearly children when he considers it now, but he was captivated by her. It was on a Sunday morning after church, she walked with her mother, a domineering woman whom he had never cared much for, but was certainly grateful to. Kristina wore a single braid down her spine, reaching all the way down to the hem of her dress. He’d never seen anything like that before. He didn’t understand why he was so captured by it until he met Kristina a month later at the community center. Their first conversation had him certain that this was a girl he could take care of for the rest of his life and feel honored in doing so. She was shy, kind, and respectful, always finding a way to be honest about what she wanted without putting anyone out. He found her easy to love and her hair easy to manage as a result.

Over the course of their marriage, her hair acted like a bond, a meditation, a synchronized dance that would begin and end their days together for 55 years. Any problems they had were worked out in her hair, no knot too tangled that couldn’t be brushed out. The length, ever-growing, reflected back to him the time they’d shared together. Even on his most challenging days, when he blamed the hair for his problems, thought to destroy it with one fatal cut, he’d soon rediscover his purpose and, thus, his peace in it once again. He never talked about it with anyone. He’d never really thought about it so clearly until now. When he finished placing the final pin, as he had for so many years, he said to her, “All done honey. Beautiful as ever.” She thanked him and held his hands in hers while she looked approvingly at his work. They sat together while she ate toast with butter and jam. He read the paper slowly until he couldn’t keep his eyes focused anymore. He went to his chair to rest. Some time after his eyes closed, he was met by an angel. A girl with long, raven’s black hair. She held out her hand and he walked with her, forward into peace.

Kristina found him shortly after, no longer breathing. She cried out for him and took him in her arms. She sat with her husband of 55 years, crying through a flurry of shock and memories of their life together. She called her son and soon, both of her children came to her. They mourned the loss of their father, her husband, and worked through their grief to care for their mother. That night, both Peter and Maria helped to unpin their mother’s hair and brush her floor length tresses. She held her ivory comb in her hands, a gift from her mother on her wedding day, as she looked off into the distance, contemplating the loss of her husband. When her hair brushing was nearly done, she asked her children to give her a moment alone. They left her room and she sat at the mirror, running her eyes across the tresses of her hair. She combed back the loose strands framing her face. The gentle pull was a familiar comfort. She held Arnold’s face in her mind, a combination of his features throughout the years, morphing into one image then another. She thought of his years of care for her, for their family, for their life. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. She always knew what was in his heart. She wondered how he managed to care for her and her hair for so long. She wondered many times if Peter was right, if she was burdening everyone by holding on, but thought it’s just who she is, and Arnold never asked her to change who she is. She thanked him in her heart. She wished for him to stay.

That night, Kristina lay in her bedroom alone for the first time in 55 years. Her children slept in their rooms nearby. As she lay there for some time, she longed to be close to him again, to feel his hands caress her face, her hair, to hear the sound of his detestable snoring beside her. She didn’t know how she would continue on without him now. Eventually she managed to close her eyes and drift to sleep.

She dreamt she was a young girl again, walking hand in hand with Arnold. She wore her church dress and felt her youthful braid swinging along her spine. They spoke of their favorite memories together, their vacations to the beach, the birth of their children. They stopped along the path and Arnold told her he wanted to show her something. He led her to a meadow of soft light. Kristina knew it was a meadow, although there were no physical objects or characteristics of this place, just a soft light all around her. Suddenly her hair was free, flowing out around her, longer than it’s ever been. Arnold called for her and she found him standing at a chair, young and beautiful, offering for her to sit. She sat before him, her hair flowing. He combed it for her as he had their whole life. Light shined through every strand he touched. She thanked him in her heart as he pinned the last pieces from her face.

Kristina lived for another 10 years. Every night she returned to this meadow of light, where Arnold would meet her to comb, wash, oil, and roll her hair. Eventually, he asked her to stay and she walked forward with him, her hair perfectly folded, adorned with her ivory comb, into peace.