Them Dreads

There is a man in Winnipeg who has made and maintained African and Caucasian dreadlocks in his hair studio for over 25 years.  Tomorrow I am going to go see him for a consultation.  Then I will (hopefully!) make an appointment to have my dreads professionally maintained sometime before the baby is due, so that I have hands-free dreads when baby comes along and needs all my hands.

I started my dreads when Steven and Grammy died in quick succession, this Spring.  They are now nearly 8 months old.  That's how people talk about their dreads.  They talk about "how old" they are, and they recognize them as individuals so the hair is no longer singular "Hair", but plural and personified, "Them".  I have begun to do the same.  This hair of mine has developed a lot of personality in the last eight months.  And while it has made me a few new friends, some very close acquaintances don't quite know what to do with "Them" (ahem, husband).  Still, it seems most people are 100% on board when I tell them my dreads are in memory of Steven and of Grammy.  I tell them these dreads of mine are an outward symbol of my inner, tangled mess of grief.  Then people nod and smile and give me the thumbs up.  Most likely because they're 100% certain by now that I'm a lunatic and their personal safety is in question.  To be fair, some of them legitimately get it.

The last few months with my dreads have been particularly trying.  They don't seem to be locking up as fast as I'd like.  They don't look nice, they're frizzy and static-y and most days I put them under a scarf just to feel like a human under this mop.  I don't really know what I'm doing with them, I don't know how to "maintain" them.  I don't know what they're supposed to be looking like as they mature.  And I begin to wonder if I've jumped into the deep end without a life preserver...typical me.

So I talked to Rob on the phone this morning and he says, "Aw, I know exactly where you're at, and I know exactly what you need.  Come see me and we'll talk, I'll give you the tricks of the trade, and you pay me whatever you can manage after I've worked on your dreads and got you set up."  A window opens!  Light pours in!  I want to cry and sob to Rob, "Make me pretty!!"  And I want to sob to Derek, "Think I'm pretty!!"  And I'm so tired I could literally lay down and cry, because I'm sad and life is hard, and people I love have died, and I want grief to resolve itself, and I want my head to be pretty again.