Hair Tie by Kellye Nguyen ’22

Hair Tie

by Kellye Nguyen ’22

Whack! The machete knife comes into contact with the solid, spiky surface and cracks it open. Via a few grunts and a lot of arm work, my mom finally succeeded in retrieving the jackfruit hearts. She slowly raised the gorgeously yellow bunch of them up high in triumph. Even after breaking a good sweat, her neatly tied bun was still securely intact, which was impressive, considering the great thickness and length of her signature Vietnamese hair–thanks to her trusty black velvet scrunchie. That scrunchie accompanies my mom in almost everything she does: cooking, gardening, cleaning, combatting a jackfruit. First brought home from a nearby street market in Thu Duc, costing no more than $1, this black scrunchie has always been my favorite among her collection of hair accessories. It wasn’t until three years ago that I became its owner, and it remains one of my most treasured possessions.

Unlike the sentimental passed-down heirloom stories, the consent factor came only second in my acquisition of the scrunchie. It was right before my departure for America, and 14-years-old me was convinced that I have, then, become an adult. For the first time in 10 years, I was growing out my hair and about to board a plane that would take me halfway across the world to my new life. I decided I had to have that scrunchie–the ultimate mark of a successful adulthood. Because in my eyes, my mother was the adult I aspire to be: faithful, devoted, selfless, and wise. So on the day of my trip, an innocent determination and one swift hand movement secured the scrunchie inside the walls of my backpack. My mother was clueless. However, soon after my arrival, the pangs of guilt insufferably raided my mind, and eventually I confessed. Her reaction took me by surprise: there was no anger, only a simple nod to our transfer of ownership, and a smile. Since then, this scrunchie has been a constant harbor for my rocking ship, trying to survive the oceans of growth and early adulthood. Holding it, feelings of unbelonging are soothed with the sweet scent of fresh jackfruit that my nose immediately goes after. The warm bickerings of vendors in street markets. Twisting it around my hair never hurts. It only ever felt like a gentle embrace. My mother wrapping me in her blanket, stroking my head assuringly. In times of doubt and uncertainty, I often find myself holding or wearing this scrunchie religiously for long periods–until it is enough. To be guided by my mother’s wisdom contained within those fibers. To be redirected and reminded that I am loved.

On a daily basis, it can be spotted sitting on my wrist or adorning my hair with its lush black velvet skin. Being Vietnamese, I was gifted with the signature thick black hair, and regular hair ties often cannot hold it without breaking. Those rich, voluminous strands never fail to show and make themselves visible. Because my hair is my mother’s and her mother’s, and all the mother’s before her. Because my hair is my heritage and theirs, and thus it is the struggles and battles they outlived so I can have a life that is seen. Whenever the weight of this knowledge becomes so evident and apparent I feel as if I’m choking, the search for my black velvet scrunchie begins. Somehow, a bit of weight is brushed off my shoulders in tying up those sleek straight, ever-going forward strands. Its sturdy hold assures me that it is okay to not always be sure of your way. For a bit, all my worries and fears are bunched up and tucked away, behind me, out of sight. A temporary solution, but a solution nevertheless. For a brief period, I am free of duties and responsibilities. I am liberated. Because carrying this scrunchie means I’m also carrying a relief from my identity. Because sometimes I, too, wish to be inanimate.

This scrunchie is a reminder of the burdens and perks of my being. Yet, it is also a main source of comfort, security, and freedom for me. It’s a record of my family’s history, a piece of my homeland, a faithful compass, and a simple escape.