#Hanami 87 | The Braid
About Holding On and Other Miracles
Just as there are days when I feel overwhelmed by the smallest grievance or the most insignificant complication, there are other times when I find myself reset by incredibly small actions or discoveries. A few weeks ago, I was standing in front of my bathroom mirror trying to fix my hair — I never put much emphasis on this part (nor any other part that involves getting ready) — when I realized that, as I was putting my hair in a ponytail, those little hairs that always scattered at the nape of my neck no longer did. It may sound beautiful when told this way; it gives the impression of that casual updo where those fine strands fall perfectly disordered down your neck, giving a natural (and even sexy) touch. NO. I mean that thick curtain that falls as if someone had hacked from ear to ear. If I visualize it, it reminds me more of those door sweeps where all the dust collects than any attempt at cute styling. The fact is — and returning to that bathroom mirror with the light socket hanging because I'm a mess and haven't gone to buy a lamp yet — that day, that magnificent day, my nape was clean. Except for a discreet guest, nothing tickled me there.
I raised my eyebrows, opened my eyes wide, analyzed my two profiles, looked around to see if anyone was watching — there was no one at home, but humans always tend to look for witnesses for our achievements — and I felt incredibly happy. Maybe the most accurate word for that feeling is fortunate. I felt fortunate. That's it: elated because my ponytail was actually a ponytail and not a mess with a life of its own, and most importantly, I could do my high braids that I pull so much in summer.
I think about it and say to myself: you're silly, girl. Maybe, but I'm a silly girl who feels great because that small step in her hair allows her to do braids. And I, who fiercely defend what I've earned, have decided to defend joy as if my life depended on it, because in a way, it does.
I've always thought of women's hair as a safe place, a space of care. The act of combing someone's hair seems like a love story in itself, and I suppose I associate it with those childhood moments when someone kind combed my eternal mane.
Those moments also come to mind when I was in front of a mirror, sitting on the edge of the bed before sleep, with a tired or sad or calm gaze — it doesn't matter — when brushing one's hair had more to do with a hug than any visible thing. I wonder if speed has also robbed us of that.
This has little to do with hair length or color or type; it has to do with care and the woven network, with symbols and the feeling that beneath your feet is a vast canvas that protects you. It has to do with love, tenderness, empathy, and affection. With sweetness. If I had to fight for something, it would be for that: for the braid and what it means to me. That would be my flag.
💭 Thinking about this, I remembered these photos by Ellen Rogers that I saw in a post from Cultura Inquieta some time ago. They were accompanied by this text:
“My grandmother used to say that when a woman felt sad, the best thing she could do was braid her hair; this way, the pain would get trapped between the strands and couldn't reach the rest of the body. You had to be careful that sadness didn't get into your eyes because it would make them rain. Nor was it good to let it enter your lips because it would make them say things that weren't true. 'Don't let it get into your hands,' she said, 'because you might over-roast the coffee or leave the dough raw.' And it's because sadness likes bitter flavors.
When you feel sad, girl, braid your hair; trap the pain in the braid and let it escape when the north wind blows hard. Our hair is a net capable of catching everything. It's strong like the roots of the ahuehuete and soft like atole foam. Don't let melancholy catch you off guard, my girl, even if you have a broken heart or cold bones from an absence. Don't let it get inside you with your hair loose, because it will flow like a waterfall through the channels the moon has traced on your body.
Braid your sadness, she said, always braid your sadness...
And tomorrow, when you wake up with the sparrow's song, you'll find it pale and faded among the weave of your hair.”
— Paola Klug
📖 This book also came to mind, which I read a long time ago —and perhaps I've already recommended it to you— that tells the story of three women from different places, cultures, and times. If I remember correctly, it intertwines their stories in a very beautiful way.
🧵 I saved this embroidery by Paulina León for the end of today's letter. I've been obsessed with it since the first day I saw it. I had it saved in my little folder of beautiful things, protected like a treasure. I think it's the best way to end this Hanami.
I hope you enjoyed this Hanami; it has been very special for me to write it.
Millions of kisses,
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