Anybody Black read this blog?

If so, remember the hot comb? I could smell the burning hair as I read the article. And feel the sizzle when it accidentally touched my ear. And hear my mother chupsing and telling me not to move as I jerked away in pain. I still have the scars on my ears from it. Isn't it weird how the mind can turn what looks to outsiders like torture into a fond memory?

My mother heated ours on the stove element. That thing was red hot. It smoked before it even touched my head because of all the "grease" (Dax) that was cooked onto it. My mother stopped "ironing" my hair once she thought I was old enough for a perm (permanent straightening... not the White-girl curly "Annie" deal). That would have been about 13 years old. It it crazy that I miss the whole ritual of the hot comb?

When I sit Audrey down weekly to detangle her own curly mop (humanely, I may add but still a bit roughly... you have to show those knots who's boss) I hope she has nice memories like I do. Nothing says mother/daughter togetherness like being up to your wrists in tufts of your child's matted hair.

kxx