“That’s it, baby girl. Start at the bottom and just do a little bit at a time. Work your way up.” Her voice is sweet as butterscotch with just a little bit of rasp to it. I do like she says, holding a section of hair in one hand and the comb in the other. I pull through the tangled locks, wincing at the feeling of little forks and knives piercing my scalp. A tangled clump pulls free and gets stuck in the teeth of the comb. My eyes water. “It’s all right. You gotta get those naps free.” Swallowing, I pull the hair out of the comb and add it to the growing pile in front of me. Daddy hasn’t combed my hair in — I don’t think he’s ever combed it. Miss Lucy did it when she was still coming around. She’d part it and grease my scalp with something in a sweet-smelling jar and then plait it up nice, with colored barrettes on the end of each braid. But after she and Daddy fought one day, she ran out, black streaks racing down her face from where her makeup mixed with her tears.
