Salt & Pepper

'I love your hair!' emphasized the stranger on the street

'thanks,' my mother responds meekly

Compliments about my mother's hair are commonplace. Often in foreign countries roaming on the streets, people will walk up to her to tell her that they love it. My mother, usually a very outgoing, confident speaker recedes into her shell in these moments. She squeaks out a 'thank you' and her usual charm and confidence in keeping up the conversation evaporate.

These encounters always bring a smile to my face. I quickly hide it hoping my mother doesn't see. She knows me in ways no one else has ever known me and would definitely pick up on intent behind those smiles.

It feels so easy and seamless for others to compliment her hair. They love how it looks. They can't believe it's all-natural. They liken it to celebrities, fashionistas, or other strong women they've met in their lives.

I know these comments are made with the best of intentions, but I always felt a sense of offense on behalf of my mother when I heard comments like those. Reducing her hair to a fashion choice felt reductive, blind to the history that made her hair the way it is today.

---

My mother battled breast cancer for years. I still remember the day she told me. I was 8 years old and she sat me down in the car and told me that we were going for a drive. She knew I liked this one long road that had lights shaped like butterflies on the sides of the streetlights. This was out of the ordinary for us, yet, I did not think much of it. Mum was always a bit eccentric and a random want to drive may have been out of place in itself, but not from the standpoint of the adventure she always craved.

She asked: Do you know what cancer is?

I responded: yes.

She took a moment, gathered herself, and finally got out those words she'd been dreading to say: well, I have cancer, beta

I don't really remember what I knew about cancer at the time, or even how I knew it. But I knew enough to only have one question in my mind.

I answered: Does that mean you're going to die?

My mother has always been a warrior. She was widowed at a young age to a husband who died suddenly of a heart attack, lost her hero in her sister months before I was born without getting the proper chance to say goodbye, and is a self-made businesswoman in a regressive male-dominated society.

She had no intention of going anywhere.

Without skipping a beat, she responded: No, Esah. Allah won't let me go as long as you need me.

My mother has always been a warrior.

---

The years after were not easy. We were a two-person household and Mum darted from appointment to appointment, while running a business. I didn't realize this at the time, but she fought cancer almost on her own. She drove herself to chemo and radiation appointments and was usually too embarrassed to ask friends to drive her there, or wait for her while the appointment was ongoing. Not to say that she was not supported, Mum has always had fantastic friends, but even in the most dire of situations, she found it difficult to ask for help.

She felt a feeling of isolation that is hard to even imagine at this point in my life.

With no siblings I was mostly left to my own devices, but not for a lack of effort from Mum. She repeatedly attempted for me to meet others and while busy would always try to leave me with friends. Unfortunately, I would usually rather read a book or get lost in some fantastical world I had created. I think Mum was always worried that her schedule would force me to be a lonely child. She always tried to pull me out of my own head. Even when her whole world was full of stress and work, she would always try to teach and raise me with whatever she had left of herself after her day.

---

She has a story she loves repeating to new company in front of me nowadays. I find it embarrassing but she always finds the joy in it. I suspect because it reminds her of how much she's overcome. It reminds her of the lowest points of her life, and she feels grateful that she isn't there anymore.

'You know Esah used to say I was ugly when I was bald'

'I was eight!'

'Yes, everyone else would say to me "Oh, you look so fabulous" but my son would be the only one to tell me the truth'

In private, my mum would tell me a darker version.

'You know, Esah, when you told me I was ugly, that night I cried and cried and prayed to god that he would grow out my hair so that my son would not believe I was ugly anymore'

I feel guilty to this day. I know it's not something I should hold too deeply. I was 8, maybe 9 with no idea of the repercussions behind what I was saying, and still, I feel guilty. Not because I was insensitive, but because now, knowing the details of all she had fought for. All she had survived. And all she has done for me, the least I could've done, was tell my mother that she was beautiful.

I love you Mama, and I appreciate all the battles you've fought because I know you fought them for me. And I want you to know, that I will always need you.

God answered my mother's prayers, and she'll never be able to avoid how beautiful her hair is now. A constant reminder of her strength, persistence, and her love for me.

With every comment I hear on the street, I smile and hide it. Because every

compliment of her hair I hear, reminds me how lucky I am, to have a mother who loves me the way mine does.