On Rotation(89)
“What’s a little pain to a warrior?” Michelle said, stomping her stiletto heel mightily on the concrete sidewalk to prove her point. “We can make it down a couple blocks. Come on.”
Without further ado, she looped her arm through mine, I looped mine through Nia’s, and Nia looped hers through Tabatha’s. We took up the whole breadth of the sidewalk, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care. Everyone else could make way. Because we were on a mission for milkshakes that mended broken hearts, and together like this, we were unstoppable.
Twenty-Five
This is a good idea, I typed, traipsing down the general medicine floors. I need a change.
My hair, on most days, was a headache. Before third year hit, my barber and I had a tight, unbreakable bond. Once a month, I slid him thirty bucks to cut my hair into its more manageable tapered cut, then spent hours after the appointment in front of my pathology review videos, working the coif on the top of my head into two-strand twists. Depending on how feverishly I prayed to the hair gods, sometimes they held their form the next day in a twist-out.*
I kept my routine going for most of medical school. But I’d been slacking for the last few weeks, and it was certainly starting to show. Maybe the white people at work hadn’t noticed the difference, but the Black people sure did, judging by the cutting way that Miss Bernice asked me when I was gonna fix my hair during pre-rounds.
This would look cute, Michelle said, sending me back photos of packs of plastic-packaged weave. Her grandparents owned a beauty supply in Jersey, and she’d grown up learning the difference between Remy and Kanekalon. In college, I’d dragged her into beauty supply stores with me to act as a human shield* but also a brand expert—she could tell me what extensions would turn into a tangled mess on my head, and which synthetic fibers could withstand heat styling the best. After my big chop* in junior year, though, I no longer had use for her expertise. So when, over our hard-earned milkshakes, I asked if she minded doing me a favor and grabbing a few bundles from the beauty supply by her apartment so that I could get braids, she’d almost been excited at the prospect.
“I always freak the owners out when I buy for you,” she’d said, snickering. “They’re like . . . ‘No, my daughter, this won’t work for you . . .’”
You should do a little color this time, Michelle insisted. I feel like the pastel colors could look really cute on you. She sent me a photo of a lavender-colored weave, and I winced.
No way, I said. Not trying to get in trouble for not looking “professional” enough.
Okay, fine, Michelle said. The next photo she sent was of extensions with a black to gray ombre. I stared at it for a long time, intrigued. It would definitely be a different look for me: a little alternative, but neutral enough that it was unlikely to offend even a particularly stodgy attending.
That’s good, actually, I said.
Most girls chopped off their hair after a disastrous breakup. Something about drastically changing their appearance gave them power. The woman they looked at in the mirror afterward would no longer quite resemble the one who’d spent the last week crying their eyes out over their shitty ex, and thus, the two women, one pre and the other post a strong pair of shears, could feel distinct.
Lucky for me, my hair was already short, so I would do that trope one better and go in the opposite direction. Besides, I was excited for the chance to be able to whip my hair again.
You’re the best, I typed. Where should I grab it from you?
Michelle described exactly how to get to the neurology clinic she would be shadowing in the afternoon, and I thanked her, opening up a browser so that I could look up Senegalese twists. I walked toward the elevator with my head bowed toward my phone, then pressed the button to take me up to my last patient’s floor.
Behind me, I heard a prolonged sniffle. I paused, then turned to find the same woman I’d encountered at the elevators last Friday. When I caught her eyes, she dabbed them hurriedly with her handkerchief and gave me a brave smile.
“Oh hello,” she said. “How are you today?”
Her smile trembled at the corners. I felt a surge of sympathy for her. Just like me, she seemed to live in the hospital; I’d passed by her sitting in the waiting room of her floor, sometimes accompanied by a gaggle of older women, but usually alone. She was almost always hard at work crocheting something, and sometimes, when I had a few extra minutes, I would watch her from across the room, wondering what masterpiece she was creating and for whom. I examined her features in secret, her stout frame, her straight, thin lips, and now it seemed almost funny that I had automatically linked her to Ricky. They really looked nothing alike.
“I’m okay,” I said cautiously. “Are you?”
She nodded unconvincingly, then took in a halting, shuddering breath. I stood woodenly for a moment, staring at the elevator numbers flashing above our heads while trying to decide what to do. Console her? Hug her? Would she be okay with a complete stranger’s touch? When her sniffles turned to sobs, I settled for a tentative hand on her shoulder. When she seemed to lean into it, I opened my arms wide for an embrace.
Apparently, that was all the invitation she needed, because she dove into them without preamble. I rubbed circles into her back as my elevator came and went, my mouth set in a line. I remembered the boy in the trauma bay, and the way his mother had trembled with anguish even as she pushed against the officers to get to her son. This woman’s grief felt similar.