Memory Stash

I have this vague memory of a freezing Sunday morning, the air suffused with the smell of coconut oil. I was lazing in the garden. My mother stood by the stove trying to thaw the frozen bottle of hair oil. Sundays meant only one thing : washing my long, long hair.  My mother was blessed with gorgeous long and thick hair that flowed all the way down her back and to her knees; and I seem to have inherited her hair genes. For a woman in her twenties, long hair is a gift and so it was for my mother. But, for four-year-old me it was a pain. Hair equals maintenance: comb it, braid it, wash it, oil it and guard it from dust, rain and boys. Moreover, if you have curly hair like mine, everyday is a battle. Especially Sundays, I hated Sundays. It took an entire hour out of my free time to tame my hair and it was to no avail. By the time the sun set, it would spring right back to curls and coils.  When she left us, every Sunday was different. No more battles because there was hardly any ...