Haibun on the High Bun

Beside her in the bathroom mirror before school, I watch the girl prepare herself for the world. One minute still goofy and young—eyes bright, cheeks child-plump, teeth with their scalloped bottoms, and all those freckles—then everything shifts as she twists and spins her hair, lifting it to chignon. So self-assured, as if the gesture were always hers, and she never sat on the floor at my feet while I unsnarled and brushed despite protest, pigtailed and ponytailed, learned to braid and style on demand. Now, in one smooth, solitary motion, she slides a hair tie from her wrist where it hangs like a jeweled bangle and secures this perfect bun herself, her transformation as sudden and dramatic as in the stories she used to beg me to read: sparkling wand, tulle and glitter, fairy godmother. No princess here, just a very real girl covering her acne, glossing her lips, pulling out a few casual strands of hair to trail down the long arc of her neck, which descends from fresh-pierced lobes to shadows cupped in collar bones. What grace she is, this momentary woman, who will soon be the only version of the girl I know.

Not chameleon, not hummingbird though she changes, flits about, becomes new.

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To read an essay by Amanda Moore about writing haibuns, click here.

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