I was just driving, no destination, three hours into nowhere, when I saw her under the highway overpass. A woman braiding hair on a white cloth spread over concrete, three silent children on…
She braided hair under the Claiborne overpass for eleven months, every weekday. Not for tips, not with a sign, never looking up as cars passed overhead. Her hands moved through someone’s hair with a precision born not of training, but of years. An old horn comb lay on a piece of white cloth beside her, … Read more