Strands That Never Loosen

20251121

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Deborah finishing combing out her hair and turned her attention to the box from her sister. “To be opened on your next hair day” was written on the tag in curly, cute writing which managed to sound strained-yet-encouraging in Deborah’s head.
She sighed. Certain she already knew what was inside. But she opened it anyway.
It was meant with love, after all.
Yes, bright hair ornaments. Ones designed for hair which wasn’t braided. Each one practically screaming “I’m single!!”.
Deborah bit her lip. It was meant with love.
She pushed the box aside, to join the mound of other such gifts. She really ought to put them away. Or at least sort them. The heap stared reproachfully every time she sat at her dressing table. Silently demanding, on behalf of the givers, when she would finally grow up and move on.
If only she had an answer.
Instead she turned away, to pluck black ribbons from the only drawer she still used. Her gaze lingering on the others. Filled with colourful ornaments, yes, and chosen with just as much care. But designed to go on braids. A proud statement of love and union.
Vince had delighted in gifting them to her. His bubbling joy, barely concealed for fear she might feel obligated to like the present, was always as sweet as the bauble itself. Each one had a story behind it - the store he’d spotted and stopped to browse through, the maker he’d heard of and tracked down, how he’d seen it worn by another and just had to get one for her.
All she had to do was close her eyes and hold her breath, and she could feel him close behind her. Perched on the footstool, pulled over from his chair. Bending close in concentration, his breath tickling her nape, his hands reaching around her for the brush and ties.
Deborah sniffed and dabbed at her eyes.
The heap stared in resigned contempt. Meant with love. Honestly. It’d been a year.
She glared them down, her lips tightening. Then she picked up the brush and slowly, tenderly, defiantly, started splitting her hair into four parts. For the four braids which traditionally marked a married woman.
Perhaps one day she would again wear those beautiful gifts Vince had given her. That would be a choice she made. And whether she wore them or not, whether her family accepted it or not, she intended to treasure those tokens of love and appreciation for the rest of her life. Nothing could ever replace them.
Just as nobody could ever truly fill this gaping hole in her chest.
Perhaps… perhaps… there was someone who could fit inside it. Not filling it, but occupying it, alongside the echoes. Everyone assured her it was so. They might be right.
But… the way she felt… she couldn’t imagine ever caring if that person existed or not.
And, even if they did exist… that would be a choice she made.
For now, she picked up the first black ribbon and wove it into her hair, ready for the first plait.
The fabric was rich and sturdy against her fingertips. The ones she’d been gifted after… everyone else gave up hope… had been feeble things. As weak as the rest of the comfort she’d been offered. They barely lasted the expected three months before fading and starting to fray.
How apt.
When people saw that she’d replaced those ribbons, and the quality she’d hunted down, they were alarmed.
“Don’t throw your life away.” How many times had she been forced to hear that?
Her fingers wove the braid with now-practiced ease. What felt impossible a year ago was second nature now.
But not a day went by when she didn’t wish she didn’t have to do this herself.
Four braids, each with a black ribbon woven through it. The front two were looped around to the back, forming arches over each ear. Representing how love and care were the foundations of a happy marriage. Then the back two were looped upwards and pinned to form wings above her head. Symbolising how partners must work together like the wings of a bird.
And indicating, without ambiguity, that you were not looking for courtship. That your heart belonged to another, and likely always would.
Deborah inspected her work carefully in the mirror. Turning her head this way and that to check everything was laying neat and secure.
Oh, if only there was an adoring pair of eyes to check the back for her. But if that were the case, she wouldn’t have to do any of it at all.
Satisfied, she returned the brush and comb to their home and stood. Casting a last lingering glare at the heap, which scowled back.
She should write a letter of thanks to her sister. She meant well, after all.

Prompt was “Show the reader something important about a character by describing the way they wear their hair.”