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140
najat el hachmi
I combed my hair that was
smooth, at last.Under control,
at last. Anyone who’d met me
then would never have known
I used to have volumes of thick
curly hair that framed my face
like a bonfire. Not now, not
anymore, after the chemical
treatment s , sof tener s ,
creams, driers and irons;
now I had straight hair that
wasn’t unruly at all. Pleasant
and placid. Just like mother
always dreamed I would have
and like I thought I’d dreamed
of them too, our shared ideal,
our common struggle against
a frizzy inheritance.
I turned away from the mirror
and sat back on the toilet. I
picked up the book,
Thus
Spake Zarathustra.
I laughed
at myself, spiritedly, look at
what you’re reading, I said.
Your situation is headline
stuff: Moroccan (?) girl reads
Nietzsche shut in the lavatory
and does nothing to decide
her own path in life.
I put down the book that
always seems the work of
a lunatic, an individual ’s
pathological raving rather
than any plausible way to
understand human nature,
and I review the line down the
middle of my body yet again.
As I always touch it on my chin
and follow it down, I almost
always end up triggering an
orgasm. The idea is tempting,
if it weren’t for the guests in
our living-room.
We heard the doorbell ring
just before five o’clock and
my mother leapt out of bed
like an out-of-place spring.
Her siesta is sacred. Whatever
happens, in good times and
foul, whether it’s hot or cold,
whether we’re having all the
luck in the world or feeling
under siege. Happy or sad,
exhausted or energetic, after
lunch, once she’s washed for