Peace For A Piece [short story]

Summary: It begins with a cut, a choice, and a body in recovery. A Black woman, a wig, and the moments no one prepares you for: church sweats, beach wind, mirrors that ask hard questions. As hair grows back and control slips away, something shifts. This isn’t a story about hair. It’s about what we hold onto, what holds us together, and what we’re finally ready to release.

 

I ended up here, on a good beach, after years of up and down.

The ocean breeze working through whatever strands I’ve got left.

I move from the cooler to the umbrella,

then land on a sun-bleached wooden bench like I earned the sit.

It started with a cut.

A ritual based on tradition.

Just scissors closing on hair that didn’t belong to me yet.

Some woman sat in a chair and said yes.

For money. For relief. For something.

Hair tied up. Snip.

Done.

That’s where I came from.

They washed me hard.

Stripped me down.

Steam. Chemicals.

Whatever life I had before got muted.

Clean enough to sell.

Boxed up.

Shipped out.

No questions.

Then came the making.

Needle through lace.

Thread pulling me into shape.

They called me a unit.

Built to blend. Built to hold.

When she shaved her head,

it was quiet.

Clippers buzzing.

No music.

She stared at herself longer than she meant to.

“I don’t recognize myself,” she said.

The doctor didn’t rush her.

“That’s normal,” he said.

“Hair messes with identity more than people admit.”

She laughed, short.

“So what am I supposed to do? Just walk around bald?”

He shrugged.

“You can. Or you can protect your peace while your body heals.”

That’s when I came in.

They glued me down.

Edges first.

Press. Hold.

“You’ll be fine,” the doctor said.

“Just don’t forget this isn’t permanent.”

She nodded but didn’t answer.

The beach tested me fast.

Wind pulling.

Saltwater creeping.

She touched me mid-laugh.

“I know,” she muttered. “Stay put.”

Church was work.

Praise break hit.

Sweat ran.

An usher pressed her palm hard on my crown.

“Mmm,” the woman shouted.

After service, she whispered to her friend,

“Girl, my wig fighting for its life.”

But I held.

Not every day was holy.

Arguments got loud.

Hands got wild.

“Don’t touch my head,” she warned once.

They touched it anyway.

Snatched.

Later, sitting in the car, she said out loud,

“They always go for the hair.”

I heard everything.

Bathroom talks.

Mirror pep talks.

Late-night phone calls.

“I’m tired,” she said once, peeling me back.

“I just want to feel like myself again.”

At the follow-up appointment,

she wore me loose.

Less careful.

The doctor noticed.

“You look more comfortable,” he said.

She shrugged.

“My real hair coming in. I can feel it.”

He nodded.

“That’s usually when people start letting go.”

A few beach trips later, she did.

Saltwater hit her real roots.

She smiled without checking me.

One night she took me off slow.

Laid me down.

“Thank you,” she said.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just honest.

That trip to the boardwalk was our last goodbye.

I slid clean off her head, dodging her hands like a fish getting loose.

She watched me hit the sand, then turned and kept walking toward the sunset.

She was free. I was gone.

And that was fine.

I wasn’t forever.

I was support.

Natural hair came back.

Peace came with it.

That’s it.

Peace for a hair piece.