Hunger Pains

McDonald's on Nevada Avenue

    I continuously combed my fingers through my perfectly straight hair; feeling the large amounts of coconut oil and heat that was left behind after hours of my head being submerged in water, washed continuously, combed, brushed, and had a hot iron pressed against it. Wearing my hair down was weird all on its own. It was a feeling that was foreign to me. I was so used to my hair being pulled back and transformed into ponytails and braids that having hair cover my ears was weird. I started twisting my dark brown locks into little curls that would immediately return to the lifeless thing that hung on my shoulders. I sighed and looked back out of the car window. Outside of the small blue car was a bright yellow light that seemed to caress a small part of the parking lot. I checked the time, 5:45 p.m., on my mom's radio and sighed again.

I couldn't help except to wonder what my dad would think about the significant change. I went from having these long, flowy, curly locks to short, straight, and simple. A part of me couldn't believe that I had allowed my mom to convince me to chop it all off, that "this was going to make doing my hair easier." Did I make the mistake of allowing my mom to chop off and relaxing my hair? I started pushing the hair out of my face, reenacting the movement it took to put my hair in a ponytail, until I noticed the dark eyes staring at me through the rearview mirror. I immediately put my hands down to the side.

"Quit playing with your hair. You'll ruin all that work Brenda had done."

My mom's voice seemed cold, tired, and snappy. I shook my head and continued to search for my dad through the darkness. Although my hair was easier to maintain, I missed how fun and bouncy it was to have a curly hair. I would miss how soft my hair would be after it got brushed, and the many hairstyles my dad would come up with to control the 'sun rays' that would stick up on the top of my hair. My mom, on the other hand, despised my natural curly hair. She reminded me every two weeks when she would do my hair on Sundays. She would tell me how it felt like she was sticking her hand in a bucket of grease, and she hated hearing me scream and cry while she pulled my hair with a comb. I couldn't help except to pout as I felt my heart sank into my stomach. What have I done? I didn't think I would miss my curly hair as much as I was, but now that I had this new hairdo, it made me wish I would have appreciated it more. How long would it take for it to return to its previous length? How long would it take to have my curly hair again?

"Maeve, listen to me. You need to tell your dad how much you love your new hair and how much easier it will be for him to do your hair in the morning, got it? He won't like your new hair, but if you tell him how much you like it, it might help." My mom stated, her cigarette burning in between her fingers.

I just nodded and watched as cars drove in and out of the already busy parking lot. With every second, one car would pass by, and another would take its place as they waited for their grease filled bag filled with French fries and cheeseburgers. I could feel the slightest pull on the inside of my stomach as the scent overwhelmed my nostrils and my mouth started to water. When you're at the hair salon, they never tell you that you should probably eat before getting your hair done because it can take hours. So, unless you are a head of the game and eat before your appointment, you'll be sitting there starving, wishing that you at least had a bag of chips or even a cookie. I attempted to avoid looking at the play place that was located inside the McDonald's and tried to look at Ariana. Like me, she was still messing with her new hair-do as well. But unlike me, a smile had smacked her face. I wondered how she felt when her bouncy curls suddenly didn't bounce anymore. Would she miss them like me? Would she miss sitting in between our parents' legs as they brushed, combed, and styled our hair? Would she miss the beads that would be placed at the end of our braids?

The fresh scent had once again slapped my nose and a sudden growl had erupted the silence. My eyes widened. I knew better than to ask our mom for McDonald's. Her answer was always the same, "do you have McDonald's money?". The only time she would crack under the pressure was if Chris had demanded Chick-fil-A because he didn't want to have what the "scrubs" were having for dinner, or she didn't feel like cooking. Besides that, we rarely got to have the McNugget kids' meal.