Maame(38)

Are you sure you don’t mind cooking again?

Wouldn’t you rather we go out for dinner, maybe?



Ben

But … my pasta machine



I smile at my phone screen. Ben’s been very excited by his recently purchased pasta machine. He’s been sending me pictures of pasta he’s made and the meals he’s turned them into for the past three days.

Maddie

I’m starting to think you might like this pasta machine more than you like me



Ben

Maddie, please don’t make me choose

Did I tell you it has TEN thickness settings?



Maddie

Yes. You also happened to mention that it came with a table clamp, a drying function, and that it can make 700g of fresh pasta in minutes



Ben

750g!



Maddie

Fine, but this had better be the best pasta I’ve ever tasted



Ben

Challenge accepted

See you tomorrow?



I sigh. Not because I don’t want to see Ben again, I really do, but—and I know you’re going to think, Maddie, I don’t get what the problem is—I need to wash my hair.

I was going to wait until Saturday, but what if Ben decides to kiss the top of my head and all he smells is the sweat and dust collected from running around the OTP offices and my scalp stewing on the underground?

I call it wash day because it really is a twenty-four-hour process that I’ve now got to shrink into twelve hours and counting.

I finish dinner and get started. There’s a method to washing my 4C hair in the least detrimental way. It’s a science. Detangling my hair alone takes almost an hour, and I could stop after step five and blow-dry my hair, but I prefer to minimize heat damage, and I’m sure that’s one of the reasons why, when stretched, my hair rests at bra-strap length.

Everyone has their own wash-day method, but here’s a simplified version of mine:

Shampoo hair until water runs clear

Apply conditioner, detangle with wide-tooth comb, and leave under a shower cap for twenty minutes

Wash conditioner out and lightly dry hair with microfiber towel

Section hair, typically into ten sections, and oil the scalp

Spray a section with a moisturizing spray, coat in a sulphate-free cream of choice, then apply a natural oil blend (currently castor oil mixed with jojoba oil). Plait the section and repeat nine more times

When all the hair is plaited, leave to air-dry overnight

Undo plaits when dry and style as desired



I know. Even for me, a doer of this exact routine for five years, it’s exhausting. I’m a little way into section five when I go down to the kitchen for a snack. Jo’s still in there and smiles when she sees me. “Whoa,” she says. “Are you putting weave in?”

I frown into the fridge. “No, just washing my hair.”

“Half your hair is long and the other is short. Did you cut it like that?”

“It’s shrinkage.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

I point to the shorter side of my hair. “When my hair is wet, it shrinks.” I point to the other side of my head, “and when it’s plaited, it stretches.”

“Oh,” she reaches out and pulls a damp coil. “Boing,” she says. She reaches out to do it again but Cam comes out of nowhere and gently slaps Jo’s hand away. In her TA’s voice, she says, “You don’t touch a Black woman’s hair, Jo. Not without permission.”

I would argue you shouldn’t touch anyone’s hair without their permission, just like you wouldn’t, or at least shouldn’t, just reach out and grab someone’s boob, but Jo laughs at Cam. “Maddie doesn’t mind. We’re flatmates.”

I force a smile and grab a packet of crisps instead of making a sandwich.

Back upstairs, I undo my plaits and blow-dry my hair instead.





Chapter Fourteen


Begrudgingly, I admit it is the best pasta I’ve ever had, mostly because instead of tomato, Ben’s made a smooth butternut and sage butter sauce. As I clean my bowl, he looks on smugly until I say, “I’ve only ever had dried pasta from a packet, so the bar was very low.”

He gently grabs my chin and kisses me.

When he pulls away, I ask, “No dessert?”

“Afraid not. Dinner took me hours.”

“Oh! What happened to seven hundred grams in minutes?”

“Seven hundred and fifty grams. The additional fifty grams is what really does it for me.” He kisses me again. “But if you insist, let me find you something,” and he gets up from the table to pour us two glasses of wine.

“Far be it from me to judge, but I don’t think that dessert has set.”

He snorts. “Dessert wine.” He hands me a glass. “A compromise.”

“Is it, though?”

“What if you pick what we watch? I have all the subscriptions, so the film and TV world is at your disposal.”

“Can we watch David Attenborough’s New Worlds documentary? I think it’s meant to be on at eight.”

Ben smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “I’ve been looking forward to that since the BBC announced it. You’re a David Attenborough fan?”