In the early mornings, when the sun had yet to fully embrace its rays, I remember how my grandma’s fingers softly touched the top of my head when I was little. Her fingers, like crochet hooks, intertwined my long, thick, yarn-like hair every day before school. Up until middle school, my grandma helped my mane take on different forms, whether it be knitted into two braids or coiled like a thick rope into a bun. The coffee-colored, thick threads that grew from my head were always part of my style when I was little. I was often praised for the elegant transformations my hair would take, because with my grandma’s magic hands, she ensured it looked its best for the world to see.

            “Your hair is beautiful,” she said to me in Spanish, in the mornings when eye boogers still lingered in my eyes. I sat in her living room while she combed my hair, dangling my feet that were too short to reach the floor. I acted as her assistant by handing her each elastic band or comb she needed to do different styles. 

            Eventually, it was time for the magic of braiding to be passed down to me, and the first skill I had to master was a Dutch braid – a style that grabs each strand of hair resting on the scalp and weaves it into main braid, building its structure and thickness. I first practiced on an 8-inch Barbie Fashionista head that was big enough for middle-school me to learn the ancient techniques passed down from generations that reach as far back as my great-great-great-great grandma. 

            But it seemed the finger coordination wasn’t hereditary. At first, my fingers were not familiar with how to move like cogs in a wheel -- overlapping at the right moment to properly form a braid. When I first practiced the special knitting style on the Barbie head, I could feel the doll’s fake, shiny eyes looking disdainfully at her tangled plastic threads.

            The doll kept her locks in great condition, ready to swoon any potential Kens or other romantic interests in the roleplaying games we’d play. Her mane was the perfect shade of yellow, the kind of blonde one could only get at a trailer park salon. Plastics helped make the top of her head shine brighter than her bleached white teeth. 

            So, Barbie shivered when my stiff fingers approached her picture-perfect wig every day after school when I would practice. I tried to replicate the same routine my grandma would do, grab a comb to split my hair, grab three strands from the crown, and begin to braid, in a swift and firm manner. 

            Barbie and I sat in silence in front of my bathroom mirror before every attempt. Though the doll didn’t face me directly, I could feel her deathly gleam through the reflection. But I’d persevere, and take a deep breath, letting the comb’s teeth part her hair, filling the air with the sound of plastic bristles. 

            Usually, step one went fine: a simple, even part down the middle. After parting Barbie’s locks, I tried to grab three identical strands of hair from one side. Yet, the seemingly easy second step caused many hiccups for me. None of the three pieces ever felt “right.” I could recognize when the pieces were perfect, when the trio of strands hugged my fingers and were equal in thickness. Yet most times, a piece of hair was too thick or too thin, and it took several minutes to get it just right.

            Amidst my struggle, when I glanced at Barbie’s painted-on mug through the mirror, I could see her eyebrow raised judgmentally. After a while, I grabbed the right strands that were ready to be weaved. Then, I’d give the best attempt at braiding like my grandma: swift and firm. 

            My fingers hesitantly guided the plastic strings up, down, and to the side, yet they were unsure if they moved in the right direction. As the braid progressed, my phalanges, tangled in Barbie’s strands, became stiff and my joints transformed into stone from exhaustion, until they became so still, the braid gently unraveled. I could hear the quiet untangling of Barbie’s hair, a noise louder than my sniffles. She gave an exasperated sigh after another unsuccessful attempt, while a tear streaked down my face. Soon, my repeated failures of completing a Dutch braid started to pile up.

            I panicked at the thought of not being able to ever be a master hair stylist like my grandma. As I continued to practice, my fingers refused to find harmony, and instead played a strewn, awkward melody, as I couldn’t properly pluck the chunky strings of hair from my scalp. 

            The worry slowly started to trickle into my interactions with my grandma. I avoided mentioning how I was progressing with learning the ancient technique, because I had yet to perfect the craft, but completely ignoring the topic was impossible.

            One day, while attempting to comb the Barbie, I felt my grandma’s presence approach, like a vulture stalking its prey. I rolled the dice and hoped that my mediocre skills would disappear as she watched. I reached for the fine-toothed comb and proceeded to pierce the Barbie’s skull to part her hair perfectly down the middle. Then, I steadily creeped above Barbie’s scalp to grab the three pieces of hair I needed to start braiding. These steps should’ve taken less than a minute, though, I somehow made into almost ten. My grandma’s eyes continued to analyze my movements as I repeatedly grabbed strands but released them almost immediately because they didn’t feel “right.” After a few more tries, I grabbed three pieces that felt “right,” or at least close enough. 

            And so, the symphony began. I, the conductor, decided to move fiercely and boldly to show my grandma that my fumblings from earlier were just a fluke. My pointer fingers, thumbs, and right middle finger were all called to the stage to perform my best attempt at Symphony No. 5 – the Hair Braider’s Concerto. After counting in my head for four beats, my fingers started to move. My left pointer finger and thumb started with a confident chord, and the rest followed. Each finger swept under the strand of hair that was below it, to grab more hair from the Barbie’s scalp, and slowly the Dutch braid began to form.

            I continued through the song, realizing I hadn’t messed up. I looked up at my grandma while braiding and gave her a shaky smile. I saw her lips part, as she took a breath to say something. Wait, does she know I’m not good enough to do this? I thought in a frenzy. I was half-way through the braid, without any mistakes, until my frazzled thoughts made me pluck the wrong strand of hair, and my first chord was off-key. My rhythm was frantic, but I was trying to recover and ignore the mistake. I continued, but the mistake reflected on the Barbie’s head – a mishappen braid, with too much hair from one side. The symphony’s tempo grew slower and slower, until I stopped prematurely, and I let go of Barbie’s hair, unable to shake the mistake that was so clearly seen.

            I awaited in silence, shivering at the thought of what critiques my grandma would say. Was I moving too quickly? Did I grab pieces that were too large? Were my fingers moving too awkwardly for her liking? The possibilities all raced through my head, until a gentle hand cupped my shoulder. 

            “You’re almost there,” she told me in Spanish. “Just try again.” 

            The unexpected  warmth, from what I thought was going to be a bone chilling critique, reassured me to try again, and again, and again until I was able to make a proper Dutch braid. 

            However, that day still took a few weeks to come. I eventually graduated from braiding the Barbie head, to styling my own. By the time I was in the eighth grade, I started doing the intricate styles my grandma did to my own hair before. (Though not without a bobby pin or two to fix the stray hairs that stuck out).

            Even now, I still pick up my conductor’s baton, to weave my hair into different styles to either simply get it out of my face, or to braid it so intricately that I’m guaranteed at least one complement. Though with each concert, and whatever braid that falls onto my head as the result of the symphony, my grandma still looks at them and says, “Your hair is beautiful.”