{"id":122,"date":"2019-12-15T15:45:58","date_gmt":"2019-12-15T15:45:58","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lonnmore.net\/sleet\/?page_id=122"},"modified":"2019-12-15T17:20:56","modified_gmt":"2019-12-15T17:20:56","slug":"johnson-a-v11n2","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sleetmagazine.com\/archives\/v11_2\/home\/current-issue\/johnson-a-v11n2\/","title":{"rendered":"Ashley Johnson"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
It’s Not Just<\/em> Hair<\/h5>\n\n\n\n

\nMy\nmom loved her hair. She\nembraced her natural curl pattern long before it was fashionable for\nblack women to declare, I\u2019m\ngoing natural<\/em>.\nStyling hair is an act, perhaps an art, that involves taming,\nmolding, shaping the unruly. My\nmom was proud of her untamed, unruly locks. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Description\nof my mom\u2019s hair:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

  1. soft\n\tcurls\n\t<\/li>
  2. thick\n\twaves \n\t\n\t<\/li>
  3. sometimes\n\tfrizzy\n\t<\/li>
  4. hers\n\twas a lot like mines.\n<\/li><\/ol>\n\n\n\n

    #<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I\nwas 28 years old in September of 2014, and Mommy called my phone\ncrying. Through sobs, I heard, \u201cAsh. Can you come over? I need\nhelp\u2026my hair.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    When\nI got there, she stood in her kitchen\u2026clinching clumps of her hair\nin her fists. This was the work of chemotherapy after only two\ntreatments for small cell lung cancer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    One\nof my sisters walked in fifteen minutes after me. I watched my mom\nshow my sister what she had just shown me, and I\nrealized the gravity of what was happening to my mom\u2019s body\u2014to\nmy mom. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Mommy\nkept saying, \u201cIt’s not the same.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    She\nwas right. Her hair, once soft and luscious, felt brittle. She\nremoved her headband and strands of her hair left with the headband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u201cI\u2019m\nready to cut it,\u201d she said. \u201cWill you help me?\u201d \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I\nfelt the reversal: child becomes parent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    I\ndid my best to braid it. Alternating\nthree sections between my fingers,\nmoving one finger full over the other, and more strands\nabandoned her head. My\ntears spilled. My sister handed me the scissors because she couldn\u2019t\nbring herself to cut the braid off. I did what the oldest does\u2014I\ntook care of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    After\nthe cut, I washed Mommy\u2019s hair in the kitchen sink. More of her\nhair stuck to my hands. My sister\u2019s tears rolled down her cheeks\nand I understood; this was scary. We were watching our mom fall\napart\u2014bits of her wrapped around my fingers, others stuck to the\nstainless-steel sink, tufts washed down the drain, tresses littered\nthe floor. I\nwanted to pick up every single strand, one by one, and put each piece\nback in place. But that was not possible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    It\nwill grow back<\/em>\u2014that\nwas Mommy\u2019s go-to phrase when something went wrong with her hair,\nor my hair, or either of my sisters\u2019 hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \u201cIt\u2019ll\ngrow back, Ma,\u201d I said. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    The\nwords fell out of mouth. Truthfully,\nI didn\u2019t know if her hair would grow back. I didn\u2019t know if I\nbelieved what I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    In\nthe following weeks, more hair washed down drains and was left here\nand there.\nMommy texted pictures of hair updates after each chemo and radiation\nsession. In the last selfie, she was completely bald. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Cancer\nneeded treatment. The treatments stole pieces of my mom\u2026more than\njust hair. The chemical cocktail and blasts of radiation obliterated\ncells, killed her liveliness, destroyed her self-confidence, replaced\nher beautiful oddity and her special-brand of cool with the sickly\nshell of someone I had a hard time recognizing. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    My\nmom died five months after I cut off that brittle braid. I sometimes\nwonder if my mom would have been happier in her last months without\ntreatment. I wonder if mommy would\u2019ve lived longer if she got to\nkeep her hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    #<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    Ashley Johnson is currently matriculating at the Pine Manor College Solstice MFA Program. She is the recipient of the 2019 Michael Steinberg Fellowship for Creative Nonfiction. Ashley is an avid reader who most enjoys creative nonfiction, contemporary fiction, and magical realism. She spends her days teaching high school in Silver Spring, Maryland. When not writing or teaching, Ashley enjoys spending time at home with her husband, their two boys, the family dogs, and a good book.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    It’s Not Just Hair My mom loved her hair. She embraced her natural curl pattern long before it was fashionable for black women to declare, I\u2019m going natural. Styling hair is an act, perhaps an art, that involves taming, molding, shaping the unruly. My mom was proud of her untamed, unruly locks. Description of my … <\/p>\n

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