My best memories are the ones from my childhood. The ones from before I moved to this country. Not that I don’t have any wonderful memories from living in New York, but the things that stuck are from years ago, when my family and I were still living in Egypt. We lived in a first-floor apartment that overlooked a railroad. Our apartment was very spacious and I remember it perfectly, even though I moved away when I was only 7 years old. But what I remember the most was the mini arguments I would get into with my mom every morning.
When I was a toddler, my mom kept my hair short. Even though it was very short, my mom was still able to put it in a ponytail. My hair was never straight, always curly and unruly. So my mom would decide to put it in two ponytails, one on each side of my head. Since it was short and curly, those side ponytails always looked like mini puffs, sticking out from the sides of my head. On most young girls, this looks cute. On me, it was just horrible. I hated it. I hated having any type of bands or scrunchies in my hair. I like it being huge, with its coiled curls sticking out everywhere. I looked crazy, but that’s how I liked to look when I was 6 years old.
Wherever we would be going, my mom would get me ready the same way every time I would leave the house. She’d go to my closet and pick out an outfit for the day. She’d then sit on her bed and have me stand in front of her. The bed was in the center of the room, with the door to the left of it. Right behind the head board of the bed, was a top window that overlooked the side street. On the right side of the bed was a pair of glass doors that opened into our balcony. So I would stand in front of her and she would help me put on my clothes. She’d then part my hair down the back and comb it into the mini side puffs she thought were normal ponytails. What makes this a memory though, is what I used to do with those hair scrunchies after my mom finished fastening my hair with them.
My neighbor next door had a dog that I loved playing with. So after my mom would get me dressed, she’d go to get herself ready. During that time, my dad would take me downstairs to hang out with our neighbor, the one with the dog, while my mom and siblings got ready. I loved that dog. At that age, I had no idea what kind of dog it is but he was huge. He had scruffy black fur that stood up on all ends. Kinda like my hair. We were also the same height. He had pointed ears and small black eyes. He was also very skinny, his owner hardly fed him. He had no name, he was just called ‘the dog’. Even though I was terrified of that dog, we had a great connection and I was always excited to go see him. He also was the one who covered up my lies. Whenever I get upset or mad at upset at something, I’d rip the scrunchies out of my hair while running my hands through it to fluff it up. I’d then feed the dog my scrunchies. I’d just put them in the palm of my hand and hold it out towards his mouth. He ate them. He was the first dog I’d encountered at 6 six years old so I thought that was normal. Once my mom saw me, she would ask me,
“Where did your hair bands go?!”
“I gave them to the dog next door because he was hungry.”
Of course, she would tell me not to do that anymore, otherwise she’ll stop getting me my colorful hair scrunchies. ‘Perfect’, I would think. But alas, my hair would get too wild for me to go out in public so my mom would put me in my mini puffs. If someone upset me, I’d give them to the dog.
I was so saddened months later when the dog was accidently shot. I remember waking up from his painful crying that night. I realized I had no one to give my hair scrunchies to anymore.
Twelve years later, I’m finally over my hatred of hair bands. My mom and I still remember that dog and all the scrunchies I gave him.
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