The Braid

The grey hours of the morning. Quietness. Just enough light to see shapes, to not run into a wall.

I stand in front of my mirror. More out of habit than out of necessity. My shell: just a greyish-black form in front of a white tiled wall. No features, no facial expressions. No eyes. One of the few times I can actually look at myself.

Self-care in the truest sense begins here. The one ritual I do not do out of anger, necessity or hunger. But out of pride for something I worked long for to achieve. The braiding of my hair: a short moment of rest after the night and before the start of the day.

My hair is long - a quiet act of rebellion against my childhood, started over half a life ago. But it is also thin, brittle and prone to dry out. No good material for truly long hair of the sort I wish to achieve. In a sense, it is a reflection of my core - as much as I want it to shine, it is not made of good material. But maybe because I never learned how to take care of it properly in earlier years. A skill which can be learned, but only honed with practice.

First step: untangling the last braid from yesterday, or what is left of it. Then brushing it. I force myself to go slow and gentle. If I get impatient, wanting fast results and trying to enforce them, there will be only more broken hair. There are no fast results here. Finally pulling everything into a tight ponytail, securing it with a hair tie. Another tie is being placed between my lips for later.

In a sense, it feels like pulling all my random thoughts and anxieties into a single strand as well, as if I would rake my fingers through my consciousness and bundle it up. Like a mental cloud, suddenly herded and concentrated.

The preparations are finished by splitting it into three equal strands with my arms raised up and my hands behind my head. A process guided by feel, not eye. If I am careless here and make a strand bigger than the other, I will have to redo the whole thing later on. Better to invest a few more seconds.

The next step, the actual braiding. Gently, steady. One hand holds, the other braids and separates. Fingers of both hands working in unison, in a practiced dance, switching roles with every step. After a few turns, a short moment of confusion as I switch from working behind my head to working over my shoulder. A second of panic: will my hands slip up, loosing one or all strands at once? But no, the movement is practiced, the braid holds.

The next part is my favourite: braiding all the way down. A process marked by repetition and contemplation, one which is still guided by feel and not sight. If I look at my hands, trying to steer with my eyes, I will only get confused. I look at my chest, letting my hands do their thing. Meanwhile, my mental eye looks inward. 

A moment of quiet solitude. There are no thoughts, just concentration on a single task. This cannot be rushed. It needs its time.

My hair: all of me. The three strands: core, shell, mask. Also: control, urge, care. All brought out of chaos and into balance by the act of braiding: talking, medication, writing. All things which need practice and only work in unison. But which bring beautiful results for me.

Finally, after twelve, thirteen, sometimes fourteen turns, there is just a bit of open hair left: the brush. All is secured by the second hair tie straight from my lips. Thus, the braid is finished. My day commences, and my hair is secured.

During the day, many strands will escape, making it look ragged. But the core stands. Even when I remove both hair ties in the evening, the braid - or at least a stump of it - will last through the night. My hair has gotten healthier and longer than ever before.

A wish to myself: if I can learn that for my hair, maybe I can learn that for my mind. To turn taking care of myself into a celebrated ritual instead of a task of survival. To unite and see core, shell and mask as a thing of unity, of beauty and of pride.

Maybe, one day I will need no more violence to seek heaven.