Sariah Folau

Writing Down The Bones

Just Pull It Up

I have this crazy, tight, curly hair. I inherited it from my father—my father

who always kept his hair short. My mother, bless her, did not know how to handle

Polynesian hair. She did not know that you shouldn’t brush it if it is dry, or that

special products are necessary if you wish to style it. Oh but she would try. Every

morning that was our routine. It was terrible.

First came the usual threats, bribes, and coercion that my mother would use

just to get me into the bathroom. Next, I would assume the position: Both hands

would clutch the edge of the bathroom counter till my knuckles were white, feet

were shoulder width apart for stability, and my necked would be locked in place as

firm as I could get it. Then my mother, ready for battle, would begin.

It started with the initial death grasp she would use to just gather my hair to

the back of my head. She used her whole fist just to contain it all. Then entered the

torture device. The brush would carve into my scalp with unforgiving strength. My

mother would begin from the top left of my head and work her clockwise around my

scalp. It was as if she was racking each hair into perfectly harvested lines. The

bottom was the worst. And as if that wasn’t enough, once she reached where she

had begun, she went on and did another round. To be honest, I never knew how

many rounds she would make; I just know her OCD did not help.

I believe the worst part of it all, however, more than the death grasp or scalp-

tearing brush, was the fact that when she got it all said and done, she would have to

loosen her grasp in order to get the scrunchie to take the place of her hand. This

loosening all but undid everything we just went through. It was as if the torture was
Sariah Folau
Writing Down The Bones
to know avail. It was like going to war to lose. It was like going to the store to only

find out it is closed. It was ridiculous!

My writing follows that pattern, or rather my writing habits. When I have an

assignment, or attempt to journal, or just have something to say, I agonize over it. I,

like my mother, am a bit of a perfectionist, so I question the best way to convey my

ideas. I worry that I won’t be able to grasp everything I want too. I torture myself

with different options, making the rounds over each multiple times. I dread the

thought process. Then, when I can no longer take it, I finally level with myself, and

just start writing. When I loosen my grasp the process begins to get much easier.

When my hands are actually translating thoughts into words it becomes much more

effortless. The relief and ease filter in and I find that I am being successful at

conveying my ideas, contrary to previous self-doubt. I realize I just have to get rid of

trying to find the perfect way, and just create a way. Of course I might have to go

back and tweak a few sentences here and there, but that is what you do when you

finally get your hair up—you tighten the ponytail and embrace the fly-a-ways.

If you can get past the agonizing thought process and simply put the pen to

the paper, you can write. You just got to get it down, unless it is hair, then just pull it

up.