Sweet Potato Haircut

Memory asks for my attention:

I am young, in skin sticking pink tights and a leotard over an adolescent body I can only imagine was once mine. I watch us all in the wall of mirrors, sitting on the floor in clusters, tangles of lean arms and legs, stretching absentmindedly, lost in thought recalling yesterday’s combinations and critiques, the critiques lingering a little too long. I see myself and look away. Class usually begins with warm ups, elegant exertions to prepare us for the demands of the day, usually our instructor speaks in a loud, fast Russian accent while wearing his usual sweat suit and watching us with small black eyes. Today becomes unusual when a girl in a striped romper comes in, made of breath and sweet air and lightness, and instead of starting warm ups she asks us to remain sitting and to form a circle on the floor, and, ever obedient, we shuffle ourselves into formation, inadvertently eyeing each other’s nearly naked bodies and trying not to see our own. Our young and lovely substitute then sits with us, and after going through introductions, asks us to share what our favorite desserts are. At the time I thought the question was fun, though it was a bit odd to talk so much in class, especially about dessert foods, and when it came my turn to share I thought for a moment, before saying from the very truest depths of my being, “peanut butter.” And there was a slightly surprised silence while we all envisioned peanut butter dessert, followed by voices clamoring harmoniously to the tune of agreement for the love of peanut butter, and our lovely substitute said to me, “girl, I could eat a whole jar!” and I remember seeing her then as my idol, for her striped suit and her voracious love of peanut butter, and for what I now recognize as her ability to unveil and reject the shame tethered to loving food, instead celebrating the delight of deliciousness in a room of young, hungry girls with ever growing neurosis. Inviting us to own and share in the pleasure of eating desserts suggested that perhaps food wasn’t merely a foe that would make you look fatter than everyone else in your leotard tomorrow but instead that it might be delightful, joy filled, nourishing. And as memory guides me through this moment in the macrocosm of moments in my life, I’m grateful to her, whoever she was. After that class I went home and begged my mum to take me to the store, where I bought the same striped suit as the lovely substitute, which I still wear today, just as I still love peanut butter.