May 11, 2025 • 7 mins
On this episode of Our American Stories, for our Mother's Day Special, Our American Stories regular contributor, writer, and Mother Winter Prosapio shares a touching story about a mundane, often-repeated event: washing her daughter's curly hair.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:10):
This is Lee Habib, and this is our American Stories,
and all show along. We are celebrating Mother's Day stories
from the past, stories from our listeners. Stories that are beautiful,
some that are a little sad, and you're gonna hear
it all and from multiple points of view, multiple generations,
and from men and women, because my goodness, the impact
(00:32):
of a mother on sons and daughters is profound. By
the way, we want to hear your stories, your Mother's
Day stories, your mother's story. Send them to our American
Stories dot com. That's our American Stories dot Com. Up next,
we have Winter Prosapio, an author from Texas, bringing us
a story from a moment of motherhood. Winter has been
(00:55):
writing her whole life. She writes essays about life, motherhood,
and he's currently a humor columnist for her local daily.
Here is her story, entitled Curls.
Speaker 2 (01:13):
It takes a full twenty minutes to comb through her curls.
I sedate the riot of hair with handfuls of slick
conditioner and sit just outside the tub on her yellow footstool,
comb me through the long black strands that spring back
into ringlets after every poll. I never imagined I'd have
patience for this before I had children. When I think
(01:35):
back to my life before my daughters arrived, I can't
remember doing anything quite so methodical as moothering. Nothing has
ever been as demanding of skills I didn't possess. I've
never faced so many moments when I was at the
end of my rope where I was driven to shouting
at another human being, at my own child, only to
apologize later, much too late. Much too little catches in
(02:00):
the thick ness of twists and turns, and I pull
her hair slightly. She rarely protests when this happens. Genetics
must tie the curly hair jene with the tough scalp one.
This genetic combination did not include the gene that extends
graciousness with curious strangers. However, her naturally curly hair draws compliments.
(02:20):
Everywhere she goes. Strangers come up to her with hands extended,
trying to touch the spirals framing her tiny face and
black eyes. Only a few get away with it. Most
times she warns them off with a staunch no touch,
her arms criss crossing her head in a protective shield.
Still strangers reach for the curls in restaurants on sidewalks
(02:42):
in doctor's offices. I'm lucky I can touch them. Every day.
We sit in the quiet bathroom. She's focused on her
floating toys, eye on untangling, smoothing. I become such a
different person since I had chows. I've become quieter, more careful,
more aware of small moments. I'm acutely aware of the
(03:06):
chasm between my friends who don't have children and my
friends who do. I've leaped the canyon, never sinsing the
moment my feet were in the air, only a few
closest friends jumping with us as honorary aunts and uncles.
Now I understand why I never saw people once they
had their children, why they stopped calling, how they disappeared
(03:29):
into thin air. I recognized the way the strange, wild
space grew between us with every step their children took
toward solids, towards school, toward adolescence, toward leaving, toward never
really being gone. Across the vast chasm, I see my
childless friends moving on quickly as I sit here. Still
(03:51):
sit here, time turning in on itself so I can
see both ends of it, beginnings and endings, all wrapping
around my fingers. I risk a higher starting point on
her head, thinking I've worked out most of the knots,
but it's no good. I'm back to the thick tangle,
prying the teeth of the comb with it. She turns,
(04:12):
looking for something. The cloth has slipped back in the tub.
I hand it to her wordlessly. She takes it without
a glance and returns to her cups that need filling.
My father, a veteran of many wives, always said he
would never marry a woman who hadn't had children. They
are too selfish, she said. And I wondered, as a
(04:34):
single woman in those days, how selfish I was. When
he married a woman with three young daughters, my stepsisters,
I wondered if he would be able to share her
with them. I leaned back for a moment, feeling the
dull burn in my back and cleaning the comb out.
The fine black hair slick with the conditioner, but still
(04:56):
twisting coats my fingers as I brush them off onto
a paper towel stretched out. A single curl is long
enough to reach her waist, yet it will bounce back
to her shoulder when it's dry. I've never had her haircut,
nervous that the metal will somehow break the bonds of
this miracle flowing from her crown. Before they were born,
(05:23):
I never really noticed children before Now, when I meet
them as I'm out on my own in an office,
when someone brings her son in a store, when four
year olds bounds into my path, I stop purposely. I
kneel before them, look into their eyes and say hello.
They smile, usually recognizing some universal quality I've gained, or
(05:47):
maybe I just look silly, crouching like a frog. All
the tangles are out, and I take great pleasure in
running the comb through her hair again and again, separating
friends into perfect spirals. She looks up at me. Ah done, No, never, yes, baby,
(06:13):
All done.
Speaker 1 (06:20):
And a terrific job on the production by Faith Buchanan,
and a special thanks to Winter Persapio for her work
and for her storytelling. And my goodness, it's more than
just work raising a child. It's a passion. It's an application,
and in the end, there's no greater and higher expression
of love. I become such a different person, she said,
(06:42):
since I had a child, I'm quieter, more patient, And
then she talked about that chasm between people who have
kids and people who don't. I never noticed children before
she said, now I stop purposely when I see them,
and she described how she nealed and how the kids
either recognize that she recognized them or that she just
(07:05):
looks silly Winter Persapio. Her story about her daughter's curls
Our Mother's Day Special continues here on Our American Stories. Folks,
(07:31):
if you love the great American stories we tell and
love America like we do, we're asking you to become
a part of the Our American Stories family. If you
agree that America is a good and great country, please
make a donation. A monthly gift of seventeen dollars and
seventy six cents is fast becoming a favorite option for supporters.
Go to Our American Stories dot com now and go
(07:52):
to the donate button and help us keep the great
American stories coming. That's Our American Stories dot Com.
This is Lee Habib, and this is our American Stories,
and all show along. We are celebrating Mother's Day stories
from the past, stories from our listeners. Stories that are beautiful,
some that are a little sad, and you're gonna hear
it all and from multiple points of view, multiple generations,
and from men and women, because my goodness, the impact
(00:32):
of a mother on sons and daughters is profound. By
the way, we want to hear your stories, your Mother's
Day stories, your mother's story. Send them to our American
Stories dot com. That's our American Stories dot Com. Up next,
we have Winter Prosapio, an author from Texas, bringing us
a story from a moment of motherhood. Winter has been
(00:55):
writing her whole life. She writes essays about life, motherhood,
and he's currently a humor columnist for her local daily.
Here is her story, entitled Curls.
Speaker 2 (01:13):
It takes a full twenty minutes to comb through her curls.
I sedate the riot of hair with handfuls of slick
conditioner and sit just outside the tub on her yellow footstool,
comb me through the long black strands that spring back
into ringlets after every poll. I never imagined I'd have
patience for this before I had children. When I think
(01:35):
back to my life before my daughters arrived, I can't
remember doing anything quite so methodical as moothering. Nothing has
ever been as demanding of skills I didn't possess. I've
never faced so many moments when I was at the
end of my rope where I was driven to shouting
at another human being, at my own child, only to
apologize later, much too late. Much too little catches in
(02:00):
the thick ness of twists and turns, and I pull
her hair slightly. She rarely protests when this happens. Genetics
must tie the curly hair jene with the tough scalp one.
This genetic combination did not include the gene that extends
graciousness with curious strangers. However, her naturally curly hair draws compliments.
(02:20):
Everywhere she goes. Strangers come up to her with hands extended,
trying to touch the spirals framing her tiny face and
black eyes. Only a few get away with it. Most
times she warns them off with a staunch no touch,
her arms criss crossing her head in a protective shield.
Still strangers reach for the curls in restaurants on sidewalks
(02:42):
in doctor's offices. I'm lucky I can touch them. Every day.
We sit in the quiet bathroom. She's focused on her
floating toys, eye on untangling, smoothing. I become such a
different person since I had chows. I've become quieter, more careful,
more aware of small moments. I'm acutely aware of the
(03:06):
chasm between my friends who don't have children and my
friends who do. I've leaped the canyon, never sinsing the
moment my feet were in the air, only a few
closest friends jumping with us as honorary aunts and uncles.
Now I understand why I never saw people once they
had their children, why they stopped calling, how they disappeared
(03:29):
into thin air. I recognized the way the strange, wild
space grew between us with every step their children took
toward solids, towards school, toward adolescence, toward leaving, toward never
really being gone. Across the vast chasm, I see my
childless friends moving on quickly as I sit here. Still
(03:51):
sit here, time turning in on itself so I can
see both ends of it, beginnings and endings, all wrapping
around my fingers. I risk a higher starting point on
her head, thinking I've worked out most of the knots,
but it's no good. I'm back to the thick tangle,
prying the teeth of the comb with it. She turns,
(04:12):
looking for something. The cloth has slipped back in the tub.
I hand it to her wordlessly. She takes it without
a glance and returns to her cups that need filling.
My father, a veteran of many wives, always said he
would never marry a woman who hadn't had children. They
are too selfish, she said. And I wondered, as a
(04:34):
single woman in those days, how selfish I was. When
he married a woman with three young daughters, my stepsisters,
I wondered if he would be able to share her
with them. I leaned back for a moment, feeling the
dull burn in my back and cleaning the comb out.
The fine black hair slick with the conditioner, but still
(04:56):
twisting coats my fingers as I brush them off onto
a paper towel stretched out. A single curl is long
enough to reach her waist, yet it will bounce back
to her shoulder when it's dry. I've never had her haircut,
nervous that the metal will somehow break the bonds of
this miracle flowing from her crown. Before they were born,
(05:23):
I never really noticed children before Now, when I meet
them as I'm out on my own in an office,
when someone brings her son in a store, when four
year olds bounds into my path, I stop purposely. I
kneel before them, look into their eyes and say hello.
They smile, usually recognizing some universal quality I've gained, or
(05:47):
maybe I just look silly, crouching like a frog. All
the tangles are out, and I take great pleasure in
running the comb through her hair again and again, separating
friends into perfect spirals. She looks up at me. Ah done, No, never, yes, baby,
(06:13):
All done.
Speaker 1 (06:20):
And a terrific job on the production by Faith Buchanan,
and a special thanks to Winter Persapio for her work
and for her storytelling. And my goodness, it's more than
just work raising a child. It's a passion. It's an application,
and in the end, there's no greater and higher expression
of love. I become such a different person, she said,
(06:42):
since I had a child, I'm quieter, more patient, And
then she talked about that chasm between people who have
kids and people who don't. I never noticed children before
she said, now I stop purposely when I see them,
and she described how she nealed and how the kids
either recognize that she recognized them or that she just
(07:05):
looks silly Winter Persapio. Her story about her daughter's curls
Our Mother's Day Special continues here on Our American Stories. Folks,
(07:31):
if you love the great American stories we tell and
love America like we do, we're asking you to become
a part of the Our American Stories family. If you
agree that America is a good and great country, please
make a donation. A monthly gift of seventeen dollars and
seventy six cents is fast becoming a favorite option for supporters.
Go to Our American Stories dot com now and go
(07:52):
to the donate button and help us keep the great
American stories coming. That's Our American Stories dot Com.
Host
Lee Habeeb
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