Baptism at the Hair Salon

By Elyse Berry

the water slowly streamed down my hair and brought a gentle warming
sensation all over my scalp.

temperature, good? she asked in a thick Ukrainian accent.
good, I replied, but what I meant was
you remind me of my grandmother. how she’d bathe me as a child.
the scent of ivory soap. a hand supporting my neck as if it were holding the
most precious thing.
how you and she were fluent in the language of tenderness.

she massaged in the conditioner, and I wondered if I could remember my
baptism. knowing it should feel something like this. a holy holding with a
kindness so simple it breaks my heart. ‘til it finally exhales. suddenly excavates
what the mystics write about. measuring out equal parts ecstasy and agony.
leaving nothing forsaken in the water.

lean back, she said.

it’s ok. lean back.

the anxiety and depletion stuck in a young mother’s strained neck.
all the hours facing forward on the lookout. unsure who or what looks back,
so lean back
I say to myself. lean back.
just let it all wash out.

good? she asked with her hand on my shoulder.
yes, I said.
it was very good.