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Hazel’s Wash Day
On Sundays, Hazel always missed her mother the most.
Sundays in the Spring were even better.
The warmth of the sun on her skin as she stepped outside was divine. The sounds of everyday humdrum and New Rome was practically Celestial in comparison to everything she’d been through. There were a few older black women in New Rome – the daughters of various gods- and their peals of laughter echoed through the air as Hazel neared them. They were congregated on the open porch of some shop. Hazel could smell their hot, delicious soup and freshly baked bread from feet away. As she passed by them, she offered a small smile and respectful head nod.
“Good Morning, Miss Hazel! I made bisque today and saved you a bowl,” one of the women called out to her. She, too, was from Louisiana, though technically younger than Hazel.
“Thank you,” Hazel beamed as she continued on her way to the bathhouse. The bathhouse was usually rather empty on Sundays, which was strange. Most of the Romans preferred to bath quickly in the morning and achieve much on their Sundays. But Hazel had all of her bath and hair equipment packed in a knapsack on her shoulders. Her hair was not looking it’s best, so she kept it wrapped in a large bandana until she could bathe. Glancing behind her, back at the women in the shop, she remembered how one of them promised to do her hair for her one of these days.
But the women were getting old and their fingers were arthritic and Hazel couldn’t hold that against them.
When Hazel got to the bathhouse, it was nearly empty. In fact, there was only two other people in the women’s section. The marble room was incredibly large and felt more like a poolroom than a bathroom. The lighting was rather dim and comfortable. The fountains poured fresh, hot water and there was an array of available soaps and shampoos and conditioners and treatments and products available. Floating on the far side of the bath was an older woman who seemed to be near sleep. Closer to Hazel’s side was a mass of dark hair. The person was presumably under the water and probably wouldn’t be paying much attention anyway.
During the week, Hazel usually bathed publicly with her swimsuit on. But on Sundays, she let herself undress fully. There was typically less people, which soothed her uneasiness. Plus, it allowed for full relaxation. She grabbed a few towels and set up her own station on a nearby, white chair. She slid her sandals off first, then her polka-dotted dress, and then her white chemise. Ensuring that no one was looking at her, Hazel finally pulled off her white panties. She crouched down and pulled out her mother’s old bristle brush and wide-tooth comb. She laid out her own shampoo and conditioner (the modern world did have its advantages – especially in a lot of hair products for coarse hair) right on the ledge of the large bath. Then, she stood up and grinned. She tugged the ends of her Once again ensuring that no one was paying attention to her (although the dark mass of hair rose from beneath the water and was swimming laps), Hazel jumped through the air into the warm bath. It was deep enough that she could completely submerge safely. For the first time in two weeks, she could feel the water rushing through her scalp and over her tresses. She could feel her coarse, kinky hair curl in on itself as it was wet.
She deigned opening her eyes and was once again marveled by the clarity. She’d opened her eyes under the water before (just as she’d washed her hair before), but it was just so clear and so blue. It was beautiful. She cherished her time in the water.
Needing air, Hazel pushed herself from the bath floor to the water surface. When she broke air, she gasped her breath and rubbed the excess grease from her wet hair out of her eyes. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to her surroundings. The older woman was still nearly asleep at the far end. In the near distance, Hazel could see the mass of dark hair more clearly. The body it belonged to was muscled, but shapely. And Hazel could just make out the top half of her body, but she realized at once that it belonged to the one and only Reyna Amira Ramirez Arellano.
Reyna pushed her wet, glossy, black hair out of her face and pulled it over one shoulder. She was completely in her own world as she brushed through it – eyes closed and complacent. Hazel didn’t mean to stare in admiration, but she felt oddly captivated. Not necessarily romantically. Her hair was just so beautiful. Even when it was drenched in water, Reyna’s hair naturally waved and curled but it looked gorgeous. Instinctively, Hazel reached up and touched her own shrunken, uneven golden afro. A part of her felt a little jealous in comparison – but not anything she could ever hold against Reyna. Her fingers expertly did her own hair into her usual, thick, long braid.
Then, Reyna’s eyes opened and locked with Hazel’s. Immediately, Hazel looked down, as though she’d been caught doing something wrong. She expected Reyna to frown or turn away or cover herself, but instead she just merely smiled. In fact, she tied off her braid and stepped forward toward Hazel. Hazel realized for the first time that Reyna, took, was naked. She felt like blushing for some reason. Reyna was quite a few years older than she and thus was more developed.
“Hi, Hazel,” Reyna greeted warmly. “I usually don’t run into you here.”
Hazel, intelligently, responded, “Yeah.” She realized that up close, Reyna was really pretty. Usually, she sported flawless makeup. But she looked nice without it too. Water clung to her naturally curly (though thin) lashes. Her naturally tanned/bronze skin shone in the shimmering, watery light. Her lips were full, though a bit chapped. Hazel added, “I usually wash my hair in here on Sundays.”
Reyna’s perfectly waxed eyebrows raised and Hazel couldn’t tell if she was amused, impressed, or both. Most people thought it was odd that she didn’t wash her hair every day, but Reyna didn’t seem that fazed. Perhaps, it was because she lived so long on that spa, Hazel wondered. She usually forgot that about Reyna because of her war-like persona.
“By yourself?”
Hazel was grateful that Reyna’s tone wasn’t patronizing. She could hear the underlying understanding. Reyna must have dealt with ‘black hair’ before.
Hazel nodded, “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard but…” she trailed off. She remembered how Frank asks her sometimes if she ever needs help. She thinks its sweet but she isn’t exactly comfortable enough around most people – no less the guy she’s dating – to be vulnerable with her body and her hair.
“Well, lemme know if you ever need help,” Reyna replied almost distantly. She’s leaving the choice up to Hazel.
Hazel nodded again and floated toward the ledge where her supplies were. She twisted the cap of the shampoo (made specifically for people with her hair) and poured it into her hand. She can feel Reyna get farther from her, but she didn’t say anything. Part of her wanted to do this herself – had to do this herself – yet, it’s a hard process and she really would like Reyna’s help.
On Sundays she missed her mother the most.
She spread the shampoo through her hair and closed her eyes. She scratched it through her scalp and behind her ears and the base of her neck and through the ends and through her scalp again and behind her ears again and through her scalp and through her scalp. Her arms already felt a little sore. There wasn’t much foam and a lot of dirty, shampooey water ran from her head, down her arms or down her forehead. So, she placed herself beneath one of the faucet heads and allowed the fresh water to rinse the dirt out. She let her arms drop and relax as the water ran through it. It felt cold at first and her ears started to pop. She spat out the water that fell down her face and winced in pain when she opened her eyes – shampoo got in them.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Reyna begin to climb out the pool. And her arms were already aching and she had two more shampoos. And she was tired. So her voice cried out, from beneath the faucet, “Wait!
Reyna glanced over her shoulder, just as she began to press herself up onto the marble floor. “Huh?”
“Will you help me, please?”
For some reason Hazel couldn’t completely fathom, Reyna looked really happy for one second. Excited, almost. She’d seen Reyna energetic and powerful and inspired before. She’d seen her triumphant and victorious and angry and hurt. But this expression was new. It was raw, girlish excitement, for lack of a better description. She reminded Hazel of little girls with new dolls on the sidewalk. She reminded Hazel of little girls braiding each other’s hair for the first time on the steps outside of a city townhouse. She reminded Hazel of Sunday mornings in New Orleans.
Reyna slid through the water, closer to Hazel. “You sure?”
Hazel nodded as she sniffled, “Yeah.”
They didn’t talk much. But it felt nice. She felt the rhythm of Reyna’s fingers as they divided and combed and brushed through Hazel’s bushy, kinky, wet hair. It hurt, but it was the good kind of pain. It felt relaxing and Hazel’s mind could wander. In fact, she nearly fell asleep…
On Sundays she missed her mother the most.
Hazel remembered how back home, every other Sunday was precious time between she and her mother. She remembers how her mother would wake up early to do Hazel’s hair. She would wash it, running her smooth fingers all over Hazel’s scalp and cleaning all the dirt and grime out. The hair would be hard as she combed and brushed through it, but eventually, Marie would make Hazel’s hair manageable. She’d rub hot oils through her hair and snip the split ends and keep combing and brushing some more. Hazel would wince in pain and her mother would apologize but tell her to keep still. Some days, Marie would heat up the hot comb and roll Hazel’s hair and her golden locks would look like the ‘pretty white girls’ hair’. Hazel’s hair was pretty unique as black hair went – it was golden and rather long. When it was curled, Marie would stick bows near Hazel’s ear and give her daughter a kiss on the forehead before telling her to go on and get changed for church. Some days, Marie wouldn’t use the hot comb, instead braiding, twisting, or plating Hazel’s hair. Some days, there were barrettes on the end, but most of the time not. Barrettes were usually saved for the holidays.
“I used to do this all the time,” Reyna broke the silence, snapping Hazel out of her thoughts. “When I worked at CC’s. It was really nice.”
“Ah,” Hazel replied, “Wish I could’ve been there.”
“Yeah,” Reyna smiled nostalgically, “You would’ve liked it, I think.”
They were silent for a little bit again. But it was comfortable. Hazel trusted Reyna. Before she knew it, her hair had been washed three times and conditioned once. The older woman on the far side of the pool was long gone.
“Thank you,” Hazel managed after Reyna finished the last rinse. But she could sense there was something still in Reyna’s eyes. She was finished but she wasn’t finished yet.
“There are blow dryers in the back room,” Reyna responded, her lips lingering on each word, “I didn’t know if you knew.”
Hazel shook her head, “I usually don’t use blow dryers. My mother wasn’t a fan.”
Reyna knit her eyebrows, “So how do you usually do your hair?”
“Let it air dry,” Hazel shrugged, “It hurts terribly though. It gets-”
“Really hard!” Reyna finished, “You shouldn’t- I mean, if I were you, I’d blowdry it. I mean, I could show you how now if you want, or-”
“Okay,” Hazel interrupted with a small smile. “Just let me bathe first.”
“I’ll get it set up,” Reyna nodded with the faintest blush to her cheeks.
Hazel poured refreshing soaps all over skin and laughed at the pruning in her fingertips. She watched as Reyna climbed out of the pool and wrapped herself in a fluffy, white robe.
The first thing she thought of when she thought of Reyna usually wasn’t fluffy.
When Hazel was finished she climbed out of the bath and dried off with a towel. It was warm and toasty – just how she liked it. She put on some complimentary slippers and wrapped herself in a green bathrobe. She followed Reyna’s bare footprints (that hadn’t quite dried yet) to the back room of the bathhouse.
There were available sinks, stools, chairs, blow dryers, hot irons, creams, lotions, and hot combs. Reyna was frowning between two similar models when Hazel walked in. Her eyes instantly brightened.
“Thanks for this, by the way,” Hazel said softly as Reyna was halfway through to combing and drying her hair simultaneously. Hazel grit her teeth in pain as Reyna pulled on her hair, but she didn’t dare cry out. She knew that pain was just a part of the black girl hair process, but it didn’t change the fact that it was painful.
“Doing hair is a lot more fun than you’d think,” Reyna said as a reply, “My sister hated it. She preferred admin work. I thought hair was much more fun. And makeup.”
Hazel couldn’t help but giggle, “It’s a funny combination.”
“What is?” Reyna frowned, but Hazel could tell she wasn’t upset.
“You and, like, girly stuff,” Hazel shrugged.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hazel glanced up at Reyna and could still see the mirth in her frown so she continued, “It’s just that, I mean, you’re a super tough, amazing warrior and you’re also feminine.”
Reyna pondered Hazel’s words, “Well, I think that being a warrior is being feminine. Femininity is about grace and delicacy. Both are needed on the battlefield and in everyday life. Plus, you’re a super tough, amazing warrior who is also feminine.”
Hazel scrunched up her nose as Reyna finished blow drying. “I’m an okay fighter, but-”
“No,” Reyna corrected as she poured some oil into her hands and began oiling Hazel’s hair. A contented smile crossed Hazel’s lips. She actually loved the feeling of someone’s soft fingers through her hair – well, someone who knew what they were doing. It was so relaxing to essentially have your scalp massaged with warm oil. “You’re one of the bravest, most talented warriors I’ve ever seen, Hazel Levesque.”
Hazel was grateful she couldn’t see Reyna’s face or that Reyna couldn’t really see hers. She could feel the immense warmth in her cheeks. Reyna didn’t just compliment people to make them feel good. She only dished out compliments if she really meant them. Fumbling with her fingers, Hazel couldn’t help but beam proudly, “Thank you.”
“So, what do you want done with your hair?”
“Surprise me,” Hazel smiled again.
She could basically feel the smile in Reyna’s fingers as she began combing and parting Hazel’s hair again. Reyna sighed quite a bit as Hazel felt her tugging and pulling at her scalp, but she could tell Reyna was enjoying herself.
On Sundays, Hazel missed her mother the most. But on that Sunday, she felt a tiny piece of that go away. Reyna would never be her mother or her sister. But she was still her family. Her newly constructed family. That Sunday, as they joked and talked like normal girls and pretended they hadn’t just survived a war, Hazel found a new, true friend. A new, true confidante. Something as simple as hair and a gesture of goodwill tied she and Reyna together. It was theirs. Her heart blossomed with such a sense of platonic, familial love for Reyna, she didn’t know what to do with it.
When Reyna finished, placing the mirror in front of Hazel’s face, Hazel wanted to cry tears of joy and love. Her hair was plaited all over. There weren’t any barrettes, but Reyna placed one nice bow near the crown of her head. It was beautiful. It was lovely.
Hazel was overcome with the urge to hug Reyna. On the surface, all Reyna did was her hair. But that gesture, that single gesture of platonic intimacy, meant the world to Hazel.
Even though Reyna wasn’t the hugging type, Hazel could help it. Clad in her green bathrobe, she engulfed Reyna in a large hug around her midsection. “Thank you,” she beamed.
Reyna, a little off-put by the hug, carefully disentangled herself from Hazel but nevertheless smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
They didn’t talk about it. It was understood.
But after that day, Sundays became Hazel’s new favorite day of the week.