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To Purple, his mom was the best. She always supported him and guided him. She never even raised her voice at him, and praised him even for the most trivial things. That’s why she was the best- not just for him, but for his dad, too. He often praised her for the meals she cooked and for keeping the house tidy. She was good at everything- except for one thing.
It was September 1st. Purple was going to school for the first time. Because of this, a broad smile had been playing on the boy’s face since early morning. He was already dressed in his best clothes. Mom had also gotten dressed and was ready to take him. But before that, Orchid had one more important task: to braid his hair. And not just hers, but Purple's too. Seeing how beautiful his mom looked with her long hair, he wanted hair like that too. And he had it. True, it was still just a classic bob. But even that was workable, and Mom was already braiding simple hairstyles for him. And that was the whole problem. She was never neat.
Now, sitting on a chair in the bathroom in front of his mom, Purple tried not to cry. He focused his thoughts on how good it would be, hurt, when he went to school, hurt, when he met new friends, hurt, when he learned something new, hurt, when he became smarter and stronger. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Unable to keep his head still, Purple tilted his head to follow the comb. Mom looked at him reproachfully:
- Purple, don’t fidget. Or we’ll be late
Orchid took a few strands of hair and brought his head back to an upright position. Purple just whimpered quietly. Mom continued to braid his hair on the sides, letting the rest of it fall freely. Dad walked past the open bathroom door. He looked at the scene and also gave Purple a disapproving look, saying with a hint of irritation:
- You’re the one who wanted long hair. So either put up with it and stop crying, or I’ll shave your head
After those words, the boy tried with all his might to hold back his tears. Not just that day, but always, whenever the topic turned to his hair. He held back tears when his father grabbed him by the hair during practice. He held back tears when his mother wanted to do his hair. He held back tears when his classmates laughed at him.
Purple shook his head. The boy stood in front of the mirror in the King’s house, a comb in his hands. Memories flooded him again. He hated it. But with a sigh, he brought the comb back to his hair and began to run it through. Now he could control his own movements, doing everything gently and at his own pace. No one could hurt his hair anymore. But there was a downside. Purple divided his hair into three large sections. Today, he planned to make one beautiful, long braid.
His hair had been growing out for a long time, and now it was quite long. And thick, too. The strands were too thick to fit between his fingers, making it especially difficult to start braiding. His fingers got tangled not only in his hair but also with each other. Trying to do everything as neatly as possible, his hands began to ache. But by feel, he started and managed to bring his hair forward, where it was easier for him to control his hands and the process of braiding. After a while, he had a result. A terrible result, to be honest. The braid wasn’t even and constantly twisted from side to side, like a snake. The ends stuck out from the hairstyle, making the whole look even more messy and disheveled. The start didn’t turn out at all and looked terrible. And the placement of the hairstyle itself looked terrible: it wasn’t centered exactly in the middle as he’d planned, but more to the side. He groaned and began to undo everything in a hurry. Purple was boiling with irritation and anger. He just wanted a nice hairstyle- was that really asking for so much?
Suddenly, two hands grabbed his wrists and pulled them away from his hair. Purple’s first reaction was to kick the attacker. He did just that, but the person dodged the blow. Noticing the familiar orange color, Purple calmed down a little. It was just the King, who was now looking at him with concern, holding his wrists in his hands:
- Why are you getting so worked up, kid? Okay, it’s my fault for sneaking up on you like that, but what’s wrong with your hair?- He looked at him with a slight smile
- It’s driving me crazy. I want to do a simple braid, but I just can’t get it right- Purple was burning with frustration
- Maybe I can help?
After those words, Purple froze. Memories immediately flooded his mind- of his mom braiding his hair, of people grabbing his hair roughly and carelessly. He swallowed hard. Purple hadn't been living with the King for very long; he didn't yet know about Purple's trauma related to his hair. But Purple himself didn't know how to refuse the King.
- If you don't want to, just say so
Purple looked at the adult. The man was looking at him with a smile and a touch of tenderness. Purple swallowed and nodded. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all. The King smiled and lowered his hands. Asking Purple to turn his back to him, the King began. And so far, things weren’t bad. Purple felt the King’s hands untangling his hair from a messy braid. Very carefully and gently. Purple relaxed a little. A comb came into play. And unlike his mom, the King didn’t start at the top, but at the bottom. Combing the ends, the King untangled what had become knotted, sometimes helping the comb with his hands. Like that, he worked his way higher and higher until he reached the crown of his head. There, the King ruffled Purple's hair a little and, in one fluid motion, ran the comb from top to bottom. And it didn’t hurt Purple. Not at all. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes again. Not from pain, but from confusion. Why couldn’t his mom have been just as gentle? Why did Purple still feel a lingering bitterness in his memories of her?
Two hands rested on his shoulders. Noticing Purple's reaction, the King bit his lip. Had he done something wrong? Had he hurt this boy even more? His paternal instincts urged him to pull the child close and comfort him. But the rational part of the King warned him that he needed to ask for permission first.
- Purple?- the boy nodded slightly and wiped his eyes with his hand- Can I give you a hug?
Purple hesitated. On one hand, he didn’t want the King to focus his attention on this situation. But the other part of him was crying out for comfort. No matter how hard he tried to be impervious to emotions, they still caught up with him. The boy nodded. The King gently turned him toward him and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He didn’t pull him close; he gave him a choice. Purple moved closer to the adult and began to cry softly.
- Why do I have bad memories of her? Why can’t I just forget it and move on?- Purple said through tears and sobs
- I don’t know, kid. Probably because our world isn’t perfect. But tell me, does your attitude toward her change when you remember those moments?
- No
- Then I guess things aren’t so bad after all- Purple looked at him indignantly, tears in his eyes. The King smiled and ran his hand over Purple’s head.
- I remember when Gold broke a vase in the house. It was my wife’s vase, the last thing left of her. I was very sad back then, but I didn’t stop loving Gold after what he did. Now, that memory fills me with longing; I loved that vase. But I loved my son even more. And I still do. A certain sadness will always be present in our memories of a particular person, but it should never define our final attitude toward them. A little sadness is normal
Purple sniffled again and wiped the tears from his eyes. It was touching and very instructive. The King didn’t often speak of his son, just as Purple rarely spoke of his family. But these small moments were very precious. Purple nodded and turned his back to the King again, hinting that he could continue styling his hair. After combing his hair once more, the King expertly braided it. Straight, perfectly in the middle, and not a single stray strand sticking out.
- Thank you
- You’re welcome, kid