The Coffeehouse Resistance by Sarina Prabasi

Author:Sarina Prabasi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Green Writers Press
Published: 2019-04-24T16:00:00+00:00

Ugh. More gray hairs. It hasn’t even been ten days since I colored my hair. All those chemicals. What’s the point of eating organic when I’m dumping chemicals on my head every two weeks? And the expense!

I’ve been thinking about stopping my hair-coloring routine. On my mom’s side of the family, everyone is prematurely gray. I’ve had grey hair since my twenties and now don’t even know what my hair would look like without the color. Is it going to be all white? Salt and pepper? Annoyingly, the front my hair, all around my forehead, is where the grey seems most determined. If I just let it grow, I’d look like a zebra, so the only solution is to cut my hair short and let my naturally fast-growing hair grow out to whatever color is underneath decades of hair dye.

Meg, my Japanese hairdresser, checks with me again. “Are you sure? You are still too young, and your hair is so long. Cut it all off ? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m so tired of doing something I don’t believe in.”

“Okay, then. I’m going to give you a fantastic haircut.”

As she gets to work, long streaks of dark hair fall to the ground and on the plastic draped around my shoulders. I feel the thrill of freedom, of newness. Of looking in the mirror and seeing someone different.

At New York prices, I know I’m going to save a lot of money by not coloring my hair. I know already what I’m going to do with the money. I will start a monthly recurring donation to the ACLU, my small contribution to counter the ugliness I know is coming. Elias and I recently became proud “card-carrying” members of the ACLU. I will also put some of my hair-color money into a college savings account for our daughters.

When Meg is done, I pick up my dad from the iconic New York Public Library on 5th Avenue where he has been happily browsing. We walk through midtown. There’s a chill in the air, but it’s not too cold—a mild November day. We walk to join in with the crowds of people gathering. There are young kids on their parents’ shoulders—small, tired legs and a better view—there are older people, and young people, there are people of all shades and colors, different dress codes, and some have signs, and some don’t. Some are chanting, some aren’t. It’s a New York City protest against the president, elected but not yet even sworn in.

“I was a young academic. It was a hopeful and revolutionary time. We protested against the Vietnam War. We protested against apartheid. I remember one of the chants: ‘Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids have you killed today?”

I’ve heard these stories before. But I listen more attentively now. I feel attuned to my dad’s experience in a different, closer way; I’m aware of the cyclical nature of life, of history, of politics. We are in a distinct political moment, but one that is connected to and rooted in the one he is describing.

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