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Lily does Harry’s hair. He’d never asked, but she offered. It’s not what he expects. She does not hurry, or pull harshly. She washes his hair first, lathers the soap, scrubbing his scalp with light pressure.
She conditions it, combing through till it's moisturized, the smell of coconut wafting in the air. She softly humming as she goes. Some songs only she knows. He doesn’t ask.
He sits in between her legs as the lazy afternoon floats by. His shoulders once taut were loose now.
She parts his hair with the rat tail comb she bought at the corner store. She does not pull harshly. Never. And she greases his scalp with her pointer finger.
Then she braids. Twisting and looping hair in crisp rows. And then she’s done.
Her hands are greasy and smell like aloe vera. She wipes them on a towel she used to wash his hair. She stands and stretches till she’s on her tippy toes, until her fingers brush the ceiling. And yawns.
Harry still sits, wondering where she got such gentleness from. So he scrapes up enough courage to ask. She pauses, then something conflicting comes over her.
She was rough once. To herself.
She combed it dry. Didn’t know what products to use. She dyed it. Burnt it. Damaged it. She tied herself to her hair. And one day she didn’t wanna do it any more.
So she cut it, all of it. And let it be. And while it grew she learned. The conditions, the oils, the combs. She leaned into the short haircut. And when she went home for the holiday, in 6th year, She knew something had changed within her.
So she told her son, the oils, the conditioner and the combs and he cried. No one had done his hair, no one ever took the time. And she wiped his tears with her gentle hands and kissed his forehead.
Maybe the reason Petunia was so horrible was because she was still being rough with her hair. Harry would not, he would unlearn her and Vernon’s nasty words, like his mother did. They would let it be.