Not too long ago I came across a story which I found so totally charming that I wanted to do a print of it. Seeing as I know the author, Becky Martin, quite well, I was able to get permission: ) The print is a linocut done with painted Japanese tissue for colour. I probably should have made the hair auburn. Hmmmm, there may be more of these in the future. Here is the story and my print:
When I was in grade five, my hair started making decisions for itself. It grew elaborately from my scalp, with auburn curls twisting upwards and then furling back into a beehive. When I woke up in the morning, I would find myself wrapped in a nest of curls. While I was searching for my blankets, they left the bed before I did, anticipating the movements of my still small feet.
My mother made oatmeal for breakfast every morning. She would kiss my father out the door and sit down with my siblings and I as we searched for candy dinosaur eggs in the oats. My hair, unconcerned with oatmeal would stray into my sibling’s personal space, and my mother would exclaim, “Oh! Rebecca! You have the most beautiful hair of all girls! Don’t ever lose it. Don’t let anyone take it. Your hair will open doors for you one day.”, and I thought she was being literal, but I know now that she wasn’t.
On the walk to school, birds would pluck single strands from my head, and I let them. This was the best part of my day. I was happy to know that whatever fear or embarrassment my hair might eventually cause, it would at least provide a sturdy foundation for the nests of neighbourhood birds.
Sometimes at school, small groups of boys would crowd around me and climb inside my hair, one at a time. Sometimes they would be yelling. I’d try to reach in after them, but couldn’t bend my elbow backwards like the double jointed girl in our class. Usually I had to wait for them to find their way out, but some boys got lost. My friend Peter was in my hair for three weeks until he came tumbling out. He told me ‘it smells like peaches!’ and so I didn’t eat fruit for years.
My mother made oatmeal for breakfast every morning. She would kiss my father out the door and sit down with my siblings and I as we searched for candy dinosaur eggs in the oats. My hair, unconcerned with oatmeal would stray into my sibling’s personal space, and my mother would exclaim, “Oh! Rebecca! You have the most beautiful hair of all girls! Don’t ever lose it. Don’t let anyone take it. Your hair will open doors for you one day.”, and I thought she was being literal, but I know now that she wasn’t.
On the walk to school, birds would pluck single strands from my head, and I let them. This was the best part of my day. I was happy to know that whatever fear or embarrassment my hair might eventually cause, it would at least provide a sturdy foundation for the nests of neighbourhood birds.
Sometimes at school, small groups of boys would crowd around me and climb inside my hair, one at a time. Sometimes they would be yelling. I’d try to reach in after them, but couldn’t bend my elbow backwards like the double jointed girl in our class. Usually I had to wait for them to find their way out, but some boys got lost. My friend Peter was in my hair for three weeks until he came tumbling out. He told me ‘it smells like peaches!’ and so I didn’t eat fruit for years.
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