Loose Thread

23:30, Saturday 15^th August

I was glad Femi came with me. I tried to keep my heeled steps paced with his 6 ft strides as we walked from Holborn station to the party. I couldn’t quite keep up, but linking arms didn’t feel right so I marched on, a bit behind, but still near him. He didn’t slow down to my pace so that I could walk beside him. When we arrived, I introduced him as a friend. My cousins thought I was being ironic and gave me (what they thought were) knowing winks. I laughed misleadingly. Femi laughed too.

18:00, Saturday 15^th August

I planned to start getting ready at nine. Before going downstairs to make dinner, I laid my outfit on my bed in preparation. I couldn’t find my black headwrap and if I didn’t find it, I couldn’t go. If Femi hadn’t agreed to come, I would have taken this as an opportunity to abscond. But I wanted to go now; I looked forward to dancing with him. I decided to buy a new one and abandoned the search. Grateful for my forward planning, I pulled on a hat and headed to my high road. The Somali Islamic boutique where I like to buy my scarves was a five-minute ride. When I reached I locked my bike hurriedly and walked to Idil’s. 

21:45, Saturday 15^th August

I wore headwraps to hide the bald patches in my hair. I wrapped the new black scarf tightly into a bun like a cinnamon roll behind my head. It was the only style I knew how to do, but I didn’t think it suited me. I thought I looked weird. It was like seeing yourself for the first time after perming your afro; it takes a minute to adjust to the way the limpened hair exposes the shape of your head. except I never adjusted to wearing scarves. I wanted to wear wigs, but when I was in public, I couldn’t shake this anxiety that someone would snatch it off. I’m not sure where it came from. I was not a person who got into fights or one with many enemies. Maybe I watched too much Love & Hip Hop? I don’t know, but it seemed too humbling an experience to risk occurring. Headwraps gave me security… but I struggled to integrate them confidently with my outfits. They became a constant reminder that something was wrong with me, like a plaster. Getting ready always brought my mood down. I imagined how much better I’d look with an afro after a fresh twist-out, compared to what I looked like now. I got on with my make-up deciding to overcompensate with a smoky eye look.

Monday 10^th August

I didn’t scream when my hair fell out. I had box braids in and a plait fell into my lap. I’ve had braids fall out before, but they’re usually divorced from my natural hair. This braid still gripped the square of my hair it had been knotted to. My fingers scuttled across my scalp searching for the patch. It was right at the front and in the middle. The bald skin felt slippery. In the following hours, more hair fell out. I cried. I took the braids out and, like a blind mother examining her child, I felt for the other bald patches. The doctor said it was scarring alopecia. The patches would not grow back because the hair follicles had been permanently destroyed. I couldn’t bring myself to shave off the remaining hair. Instead I walked around the flat with the appearance of a Nollywood villain whose juju had rebounded.

No one could console me, though they tried with warm alacrity. My female friends and my father gave me saccharine assurances that I was still beautiful. Apparently, I practically looked the same – with a bald patch at the front of my head – so it didn’t matter. They lavished heartening reminders that things could be worse; one friend referred me to the Instagram page of a burn victim who had lost her hair. “See?” She said expectantly. Maybe their encouragement would have worked had their hypocrisy not betrayed them. Absentmindedly, they catastrophized bad haircuts and bad hair days, and when I fed them with the sentiments they fed me, they were unsatisfied, until I said what they couldn’t say to me: “it will grow back” or “you can change it”. 

My mother and my male friends seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. They were silent when I said “It looks really bad” and immediately stuffed me in supportive hugs, “you’re going to get over this”. Their approach left me feeling bereft rather than empowered. To an extent, their silence was affirming because it honoured the importance of having hair and therefore the pain of losing it. But overall it reinforced my rigid philosophy of hair. I needed to feel like losing my hair was sad, but not tragic.

***

After a month both camps grew tired of my unreceptiveness. I never left the house and flaked on my friends. I was never accused of wallowing but when I brought up the topic of my hair, or hair generally, they started giving short clichéd responses and changed the subject. I felt jilted but I put on thin smiles to save us both the embarrassment of acknowledging my need for their pity and their being tired of giving it. My mother wasn’t embarrassed when she called on Monday, 

“You have to go.”

I stayed silent. I didn’t have to do anything, I thought, but I didn’t remind her. 

“You can’t hide at home forever. I’ve bought you the wigs. All your friends are wearing wigs, what’s your problem? I know it’s been hard, but you’re just wasting time now. The world is moving, you will be left behind. You have to go. I told Aunty Mary that you are coming, so you have to go because I’m not a liar.”

22:30, Saturday 15^th August

FEMI

Message me when you leave. 

CECELIA

Cool x 

15:00, Wednesday 12^th August

I met Femi in first year at a student night in Piccadilly Institute. I don’t know what song was playing but we found each other in the middle of the dance floor. He was one of the best dancers I’d encountered that night. The whine was so intuitive I felt like I was in love with him. We danced together till the club closed, with intermissions to the smoking area to chat and kiss. He piggy-backed me all the way back to my place on campus where we spooned in my single bed, listened to music and talked till midday. He talked to me as if we’d never see each other again; as if I were an Über driver and he a passenger in the back seat. He told me he was lonely and his mum was a sex worker. I told him I stole from shops and was insecure about my breasts (he said he liked them). We never really met up again, though I wanted to. We would run into each other on campus and he was always nice, but I felt an ambivalence towards me. I would meet him at parties and he would act like we were strangers meeting for the first time. So I never asked to meet again and neither did he. I think, for him, that night was inconsequential.

He called me randomly three months ago, just before the end of final year. We spoke sporadically from then. Talking to Femi gave me a false sense that I was overcoming. Our phone calls were an intimate bubble where I felt attractive. They were brief interludes to my insecurity. I didn’t have any expectation that we would become anything, but I felt that he liked me and that was affirming. We always talked as easily as the first night we met, though I never told him about my alopecia. I didn’t think pity and allure mixed well. 

“There’s nothing special about sex and it’s your body. Do what you want with it.”

“You’re right.”

“…but I want to be your first.” He quipped. 

“You’re dumb.”

“Whose been in the running, or come close?”

“No one you know.”

“Have I ever come close?”

“I said no one you know.” I always played it cool, but his prurience made me bold,

“what are you doing on Saturday?” I asked inscrutably. 

“Nada, why?”

“Want to come to my cousin’s birthday party? The music will be really good.” As soon as the words abandoned my lips, I regretted it: I was not in the mental space to be engaging in aleatory pursuits. These calls were supposed to be a hygienic bubble. Just before I was about to retract the invitation he said,  

“Sure.”

22:30, Saturday 15^th August

I was ready, but I couldn’t walk past the mirror to the door without finding something that required amendment. The closer I looked at myself the more I wanted to wipe off my make-up altogether. I felt my phone vibrate.

FEMI

Have you left? 

FEMI

I’m leaving. See you in a bit.

I didn’t want to go anymore. I sat on the floor by my heels with my back against the door. I opened Notes on my iPhone and started drafting a text to my aunty and my cousin explaining why I would not be showing up. I was thinking of a plausible excuse when my flatmate, on her way out to the cornershop, found me at the door.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, I’m just not really feeling my look.” I said in an easy-going manner. I offered one of my waning crescent smiles as an aide to get her moving along. Then I crawled away from the door to lean against the wall adjacent so she could leave. She didn’t. I knew what was coming, Jen was of the saccharine-sweet camp. 

“What? But you look so beeeyouuteeful.” 

I rolled my eyes spiritually. I think she sensed it, because she sat beside me and asked,

“What’s really wrong?” I didn’t have the energy to lie. 

“It’s this hair stuff. I’m struggling to… adapt. Now, I have to go to this party… and I got caught up talking to Femi and invited him tonight, but I don’t really feel good about myself right now. I haven’t told him about my alopecia and I feel fragile because I guess I like him a bit… I know one wrong look could unravel me. I know I’m not the first person to lose their hair, but everything feels very personal right now. I think I should stay and process this stuff.”

“You’ll never feel ready. You’ve got to feel the fear and do it anyway.” Very cliché, I thought. “This thing with Femi isn’t deep, so just go and have a good time. Don’t overthink anything. You look amaaazing and I’m sure he’ll think so too.”

“Yeah it’s not deep, but like I said, I like him, and whatever you say or whatever I might actually look like, I don’t feel good. I think that’s worth calling it a night.”

“Yeah, but you can’t hide out here forever. Go and dance. What’s the worst that could happen? You’re a strong person; you won’t just unravel. People don’t unravel.” 

Jen didn’t really listen to understand. Her agenda to get me out of the house was already set and she succeeded. I latched on to “don’t overthink”, “go and dance” and “you’re a strong person.” I put my heels on and without looking in the mirror left the house with her. We linked arms as we walked to the bus stop where she dropped me off triumphantly. You shouldn’t rely on advice from people who don’t know you well.

CECELIA

Just left x

***

Femi was waiting for me on the other side of the barriers at Holborn station. I was late and the escalators there are nerve-rackingly long so I felt a bit flustered. Luckily his back was facing me when I got to ground level. I took a moment to get myself together and tapped him on the arm from behind. 

“Heeeey.” He said, turning to face me with a welcoming smile. His eyes lingered a little too long on my headwrap, like it was a pimple, when he leaned in to grip me in a hug. Don’t overthink it, you’re strong, just go and dance, I told myself. 

***

It was an open bar and as predicted the DJ was perfect. He didn’t play anything too long or too short and wheeled up the right tracks at the right time. We spoke a lot at the bar and I fell back into our bubble. When we moved to the dance floor I was bordering drunk and Femi was bordering tipsy. I danced so hard I was sweating. The music was so loud you felt like it was the beat, and not your heart, pumping blood around your body. I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to think of the better-looking girls circling me. Femi and I danced facing each other, vibing off of one other, but from a notable distance. I had been passive-aggressively trying to initiate a whine with him, but it hadn’t worked. I thought maybe he wasn’t picking up on it. I tried something more direct. Rather than simply moving closer to him, I turned around and backed myself on to him. He held me by my shoulders and turned me to face him, 

“I’m not comfortable doing that with you.” He confirmed plainly. Then why did he come here with me? I was embarrassed but I nodded respectfully. I forced an unperturbed smile on to my face and continued to dance, as we had been, facing each other. My body moved automatically to the beat so I could panic privately in my head. I played it cool. When the current song ended I darted to the toilet to gather myself. 

***

In the bathroom I tried to explain to myself that it wasn’t deep; he’s entitled to not want to dance with you. But his rejection caught me off guard. Why did he come here if not to dance with me? Did I look that different? Or bad?  I stared at myself in the grimy bathroom mirror and wiped my smoky black tears off my face. I was definitely unravelling. I took in deep breaths to calm myself. I needed a pep talk from a drunk stranger: you look so fucking hot! He doesn’t deserve you! Fuck him. Instead my cousin walked in. We’re not very close. I straightened up and smiled. We talked about how great she looked and how great the party was. Meanwhile in my head I replayed don’t overthink it, you’re strong, just go and dance. 

***

I left the toilet feeling like a loose thread. We had had a good time up till that moment, I was just being irrational. We could still dance facing each other. It was fine. As I got closer, Femi walked towards me and asked if I was okay as I’d been gone for a while.

“Yeah, I just had to use the toilet.”

“Cool. Hey. Is it okay if I dance with someone else?” He asked, gesturing towards a girl with hair slicked back and twisted in a bun behind her head, like my cloth version. His insouciance stumped me. Not only was his rejection of me complete, but I thought of my cousins seeing the guy I had brought dancing with another girl, shattering my pretence. He waited earnestly for my response, as if his question was justifiable. His expression was an affirmation of all my negative thoughts. You’re not attractive without hair.

“You don’t need to ask. Do what you want.” I said coldly. A sobering anger erected me. I stopped mediating my emotions. I picked up my coat immediately and headed for the door. 

“Are you leaving?” He stupidly called out after me. I ignored him and walked fast and hard towards the exit. 

I was outside waiting stiffly on the pavement for my Über to the station. I couldn’t feel the cold and held my coat in a clenched fist. Femi had followed me out, 

“Your cousin’s birthday cake just came out. You’re missing it. Come back inside.” I shrugged without looking at him. My Über arrived and I jumped in without saying bye. Femi got in on the other side. I didn’t understand the point of asking to dance with someone else and then leaving with me. I stared out of the window closest to me, looking at nothing. I felt him squirm in my inimical silence. When the Über arrived at the station I headed towards the barriers. He ran up behind me, grabbed me by the shoulders again and pulled me to the side. 

“Are you okay?” I nodded. “What’s the problem?” I shook my head. “Can we just be friends, I think things are getting… complicated.” I nodded. So he followed me to finish embarrassing me. He knew what the problem was. Things hadn’t gotten complicated, I had gotten ugly, and he didn’t have the decency to ghost me on Sunday like a normal person. Finally, he realised I would not cooperate and released me. We approached the long Holborn escalators to head down to the tube. He was ahead but ushered me in front of him. The irony of his politeness made me cackle. I waited for him to go ahead, so he did. He faced me and seemed pleased that he had contributed to my laughter. I asked him to step back and in his moment of unsteady, I pushed him hard down the escalator. The fall was fascinating. I watched his long limbs flail. I couldn’t see his face but I was certain it was a far cry from the insouciant expression he wore when he asked to dance with someone else. 

Wednesday 18^th August

After Saturday the days passed in an unpleasant haze. Femi’s injuries weren’t critical but my shame was. He was a fool, but I wished I hadn’t made him a pillar for my wellbeing. I spent most of my time under my duvet. The therapist assigned to me was not very engaging, which didn’t help. She said things that made sense like, what happened on Saturday was not about Femi or losing my hair. The problem was how I interpreted those events – my pattern of thought. Apparently, I could change my thoughts and consequently how I felt. I didn’t share her vision yet, but I nodded.