The Short Story Behind the Post

For those of you who have been visiting this blog for a while you may remember a blog post that I wrote back in November called Hands In My Hair. This post came from a short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing course. My class is now over (which is very sad) and I would like to share the part of the short story that my fellow creative writing course members said sounded untrue "Because people in Sweden don't go around touching stranger's hair." Now I know that this is not true from first hand experience. I also know this from reading other people's blogs and talking to people world wide. Strangers do touch natural hair, sometimes they ask, sometimes they don't, but it's a fact that it does happen. 

This is taken from my final draft, so the story has been re-written a few times. But I actually didn't re-write very much of this part, so it hasn't changed much from when my course mates read it.

Touches

It was starting to get colder each day; the fall wind was changing into to the icy wind of the Swedish winter. The cold air had followed Samuel to the platform where the train was supposed to arrive in 7minutes. He adjusted the collar of his jacket to prevent the cold air from entering between his scarf and jacket. He was feeling anxious to sit down in a warm place. His hands were starting to get stiff, as if the cold air sucked the moisture out of his skin and turned it into leather. His whole body felt tired from trying to study all day. Thoughts of Amma had distracted him more than usual today. He found himself day dreaming, going back in his mind to the games they used to play when they were small children. Amma’s birthday was coming up; this year she would have turned twenty-three. Studying to be a doctor had been her dream for him, but today that wasn’t motivation enough for him to stay focused. He couldn’t wait to get home and lay down on the couch in front of the TV. He hoped the TV could distract him, or at least help him fall asleep. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and was just about to put his head phones on when he felt someone carefully touching the back of his hair. He turned around and was standing face to face with a young woman with clear blue eyes. She was wearing a navy coat and was smiling shyly. 

   "I just had to touch your hair," she said as she lowered the hand that had just been playing with his black, tight curls. What was it with Swedish people? They were always so private, but when it came to his hair or his heritage it was as if it was public property. Just because he had an afro instead of straight brown or blonde hair it was perfectly okay for strangers to touch his hair without asking. Silence surrounded him and the unknown woman.

   "I'm not a fucking dog," he couldn't contain himself; this had happened to him too many times for him to be polite about it. "I don't know who you think you are. But next time you want to touch a stranger’s hair you better ask first."

   The woman stared at him with her mouth partly open. He turned back around and put on his head phones. 

   "Fucking people," he muttered to himself as he turned up the volume of Sizzla singing in his ears. He took a few deep breaths.

   Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around slowly. The woman was still standing there, this time she wasn't smiling. She said something, but Sizzla was too loud for him to hear it. He slowly removed his head phones. 

   "Listen! I don't want to be bothered," he motioned to put his head phones back on. 

   "I'm not a racist,” the woman’s voice was high pitched. There was a sense of panic in her blue eyes. Samuel sighed and let his head phones hang around his neck.

   “I’m sure you’re not…”

   “I have African friends. Maybe you know them?” The woman continued, trying to smile. “Mohammed and Fatima, I think they are from Senegal.”

   Samuel took a deep breath and shook his head. Here we go.

   “Oh, really? Well maybe you know my friends Eric and Julia they are from Poland and Serbia.”

   The woman looked confused. So many Swedish people assumed that the entire African population knew each other, regardless if they were from the same country or not. Not even the few 9 million people of Sweden knew each other. How could they expect the over 1 billion African people knew each other? He put his head phones back on. He wishes he could call Amma and tell her about what had just happened. His sister would have laughed, telling him to stop being rude to strangers. Samuel swallowed trying to get the lump in his throat dissolve as the train pulled into the platform. 

What are your experiences with people touching your hair? Feel free to comment!