Ponytails And French Braids
By Hailey Noonan
I’m standing in the triage room in the ER, in a gown, waiting for a doctor to examine me. After a nurse placed an IV in the tender crook of my elbow, I have not been able to figure out how to successfully redo my own ponytail while connected to the IV pole. I awkwardly tip my head down and try not to bend my right arm as I navigate the heft of my thick brown hair that reaches the middle of my ribcage. My hair is winning, the weight of it pulling down the hair tie and escaping around my face.
My stomach pains are likely related to a complication from my bone marrow failure disease. The pain comes and goes, but this particular wave has lasted several days. I was diagnosed after the birth of my daughter. I receive regular IV infusions that should give me a “normal life expectancy.” What is that? Who defines these things?
Normal.
Life.
Expectancy.
Chronic illness is just a backdrop here. I’m thinking about my ponytail now, not the familiarity of this IV pole and the ache in my body.
My dad is standing near the window in the small room with me. My husband dropped me at the ER after the stomach pain I felt at a family birthday dinner became unbearable. Our son and daughter were engrossed in restaurant antics with their cousins. I picked at my salad and whispered to my husband, “I can’t eat this. My stomach is worse. I’m not sure what is going on.” We left.
He pulled the minivan up to the hospital’s automatic door and security guard, dropped me off with a hug, kiss and prayer, and proceeded to take our four-year-old and two-year-old home to bed. I insisted I was fine alone, it was probably nothing (an incessant, annoying, mantra of mine), and yet he called my dad to meet me at the hospital. I was silently grateful for it. I am always retroactively grateful for help, relief I didn’t know I needed and therefore won’t ask for-especially when I couldn’t get that ponytail to tighten and keep my hair out of my face.
It was a small irritation, amidst everything else. But that small thing blotted out all the bigger things I wanted to avoid. It was as if I was holding my thumb up to the sun and squinting sideways, trying to make it disappear, as it shines out all around.
“Dad ... can you do a ponytail for me? I just can’t get it.” I raise my straight right arm in futility.
A pause.
“Of course hun.” He crosses the room and gently sweeps my hair up and away from my face, twisting the elastic around, pulling it tight. “Is that good?”
He remembered how.
I remember him doing my hair in the morning before elementary school. My mom and dad worked split shifts. My mom worked days, and my dad worked nights, so the four of us kids never had a babysitter. I can’t imagine how hard this was, and it never even crossed my mind, until I had my own children and began to navigate childcare myself.
His hands were rough, but gentle enough, and he never used a comb. He struggled a bit, but was always quick about it. You have to be, with four kids. I always had a multitude of bumps in my thick, wild ponytail. Tangles that refused to be smoothed. A girl in my class at school was quick to point this out, wondering why my signature look was a “ponytail with bumps.” This classmate regularly had symmetrical French braids trailing down her back. I bet her dad never did her hair, and I felt a little smug about that, with my ponytail bumps and all.
One day, I learned to do the ponytail myself. I can’t remember how old I was, but I stood alone in the bathroom with an elastic band, in front of a large, toothpaste-speckled mirror- and no small amount of determination to figure it out. I may or may not have used a brush to smooth out the bumps.
As I wait to hear a doctor’s footsteps outside the door, I remember vividly and with some surprise, how it feels for my dad to do my hair.
***
My mom would leave for work before we woke up every morning. She shared with me recently that she used to ask us on the phone in the morning what we wore to school, just so she would know. She would sometimes pack our lunches for us after bedtime, full to the brim, overflowing with all of the pre-packaged snacks my friends always wanted (Fruit Roll-Ups and Hostess goodies galore). I’m a working mother myself, and when I remember these things now, I nod along.
It was the early nineties and we would stay up late together, watching figure skating. Most of the figure skaters had French braids. I wanted one, much like I wanted to know how to do a triple axel while dressed like a fairy.
My mom took a class at the local parks and rec center to learn how to French braid my hair. She told me she even read a book. I sat in a chair for what felt like three hours, but was probably a half hour, staring out my bedroom window as my mom painstakingly tried to figure it out, first pulling the knots out of my unwieldy hair. I remember this too, her determination to figure it out, and my delight when I ran my hands over the hard-won, pretty braid. I could have a French braid, too, when I really wanted it. No big deal, girl in class (it was a very big deal).
Now I watch a YouTube video as I gather my two-and-a-half year old daughter’s long enough, blonde, wispy hair into a delicate, tiny French braid of its own. She’s teetering on top of three cushions stacked on the couch and I realize that I’m comically focused, pressing my lips together, holding two different types of combs, a hair tie, and little handfuls of her fine hair.
“Just a little bit longer honey. Look at her hair! Isn’t it pretty! Yours will be the same!” I chirp, all bright and hopeful, and only slightly panicky.
When it’s done, I am proud in a way that is completely out of proportion with a braid, and it catches me a bit by surprise. I see her smile when I hold her up on my hip, to see her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She tells me it’s “princess hair.” She runs away down the hall, and I try to snap a photo of her hair without her seeing. I hope she remembers this too. My endeavor to bring her delight, my love without words.
***
I step over to the hospital bed, finally comfortable enough to sit and wait for whatever is going to happen next. I’m comfortable, and comforted, remembering those hands sweeping the hair from my eyes, untangling the knots over and over again, and weaving the strands with hope that it will all turn out ok.
Guest essay written by Hailey Noonan. Hailey is a wife and mama living in Michigan. She is an attorney and works in nonprofit development. Hailey is an avid reader and writer, and a member of the Exhale creative community.