My sis Julissa has gorgeous thick hair. On the other hand, I have thin hair- a lot of thin hair. This story is about hair critters and sh

aved heads. Well, one unfortunate shaved little head.

Growing up in a place like St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, there existed the typical southern stereotypes; trailer park trash, southern beauties, blacks vs. whites fights at school, white girls who dated black boys were called nigger lovers. You get the drift. The majority of the kids were white, then the blacks, then the rest of us.

But for now, we’ll skip the racial stuff. It’s not important in this story. Although if you’re white, you may find this story offensive. It isn’t meant to be.

As I remember it, most of the white kids who lived in trailers were not the cleanest. Although it wasn’t their fault. When you’re in elementary school, it’s your parent’s responsibility to ensure you are properly fed, clothed, and cleaned. But that wasn’t always the case. Hence the story line about lice.

And back to that gorgeous hair of Julissa’s. She was always coming home with lice and spreading it to me. She was the social butterfly.

Most of the time, when we got lice, my mom, in her typical bad mood, would sit us by a lampshade. With a fine comb, she searched for lice trying to kill one by one. I can still remember that harsh combing and hair pulling, as if she was punishing our scalp.

When that didn’t do the trick or she tired of her useless hunt, she’d break down and buy RID and that would do the trick.

One time in particular my mom had enough. I don’t know what she did to Julissa. Maybe Julissa got the angry comb or maybe she got the RID. Likely, she got both.

But for me, well I always got the special treatment. And not special in a good way. 

My mother punished me for Julissa spreading lice again. This was not unusual in my adolescent life. I was severely punished from the time I was five to eighteen years old.

So back to the punishment.

I don’t know if my mom cut my hair first or if she went straight for the hair trimmer. All I know is that she shaved my head. And I mean Sinead O’Connor shaved.

I must have been 7, 8 or 9 years old. I can’t recall.

I forgot this even happened to me. Years ago, I was going through old photos and saw one of me with my head completely shaved. I remember staring at the photo thinking oh my god, what the fuck.

And bits of my memory came back, with a little help from my mom or dad confirming that my head was shaved because we caught lice.

Now looking back, I can’t fathom why a mother would shave her daughter’s head. And why wouldn’t she wouldn’t shave the head of the one always catching lice and spreading it to their siblings.

Not that I thought my sister’s head should have been shaved. 

Shaving a little girl’s head is rather cruel.

But I couldn’t help but wonder, why me? 

I didn’t dwell much on this because it is one of many instances of my childhood that makes me wonder, why me?

During my adolescence, me and my siblings attended church religiously. We loved our little southern Baptist church. Although I’m no longer religious, I credit the adults at that little church for building my moral compass. They taught us the way of Jesus; to give to the less fortunate, forgive and to always be a good person. Without that little church, I don’t know what would have come of me.

Now, you may say, well, why don’t you just ask your mother. Here’s the thing about my mother. In her mind, she was the best mother. She said those exact words to me. She always says that if she wasn’t as hard on me as she was, I wouldn’t be where I am today. And a lot of things she claims not to remember.

So, I choose to be thankful for her bringing me and Julissa to the United States. She could have left us in Honduras like so many young immigrant mothers do, once they arrive in the US and start a new life.

I don’t know that I have a “moral of the story” here.

But I think that in life, it is ok and at times necessary for our own survival and growth, to acknowledge and prove to those who have hurt us the most, that we did not get to where we are because of them. We got to where we are despite them.

The photo of me with my shaved head is somewhere in my parent’s house, buried deep like my memories and emotions used to be. One day I’ll find the photo and I won’t shed tears for that little girl. No, I’ll tell that little girl that she has much more pain to endure but to hold on and keep fighting. You will make a life that will be everything you could ever dream of.