French fate

Anna, I still remember the best times we had together: I loved it when you braided my hair. Sophomore year, health class, you braided my hair some new way every day, and it felt so good I melted into your lap. Twin French braids like ponytails, French braids that started at the bottom and ended in a spiraled braid bun on my forehead, French braids that zig-zagged back and forth across my head--each was a scalp massage that lulled me into perfect contentment, though teacher Acevedo did drone on and on about reproductive organs. (I always wanted laugh when he said all penises were essentially the same size. Yeah, just like boobs, right?)

We talked on the phone some, and we had mutual friends, but I don’t remember any depth to our friendship but braiding. And that was one sided. I took and took anything that you would give me because I love human touch that much. Especially hair touching. (I must be a monkey.)

But I never groomed you in return. I let myself be your pet because it was so worthwhile. The benefit to me—constant hair braiding—outweighed every discrepancy in our personalities or interests. I didn’t mind that you were a devoted preppy and that I tried to be rock-and-roll mega-punk. I thought it was punk that I was so bold to wear my purple hair braided into perfect, even, inverted twists, as clean and neat as the best professional stylist could ever craft them.

You’ve been trying hard to reach out to me the last few months, Anna, but I just don’t know what to say. “Remember health class, when you braided my hair?” It sounds as trivial as it was shallow then. What we didn’t have in common then, we still don’t have in common now. And, now, you can’t even braid my hair you’re so far away. If we could get together weekly for margaritas and hair braiding, I’d say, “Remember health class, when you braided my hair?” and mean it fondly.

Your twin children are beautiful, Anna, I mean it. But I remember your husband from our small high school (they look just like him), and I remember all those years you deceived me. “We’re just friends,” you said about him all the time, over and over. Years later you tracked me down and said, “We secretly dated all that time and now we’re married.” Were we really friends if you didn’t tell me about your secret boyfriend? I don’t remember it the way you do, I guess.

There’s no grudge; I’m not hurt that you lied to me all those years. And really, I’m glad that your life sounds so storybook perfect and that your twins are precious. Hairbraiding was enough for me then. I loved you in my own way for that, but now my hair is short.