“The Comb” by Alexandra Vervoordt

The Comb

My parents' TV set was located in a cupboard in their bedroom. It was small by today's standards and was hidden by a hinged door. Above the set was a family heirloom, a metal bowl holding spare change and paper clips. Below the set was a VCR player and resting atop that was a cardboard box. It was in this cardboard box that my dad and I kept our treasures, a dead luna moth, a giant spider, and a couple of other insects that were falling apart into flakes of exoskeleton and detached antennae. This was the box that I would show my friends on play dates. It said something about me that I wanted to be said. 
On the left side of the TV cupboard were my father’s drawers that I would only open on occasion. One such occasion was to grab the lint roller that he would roll against his dark suits every morning to get the white shepherd hair off, and another was to secretly use his comb. I say secretly because my mom and sister and I, for the life of us, could not keep track of a comb. And when we had lost all of our combs we would have to come begging to our father to let us borrow his, but he wouldn’t just give it to us, as it was a closely-monitored situation. First we would have to leave the room so as not to reveal his secret hiding spot. We would hear him rustling about from the other side of the door and then he would reappear with a light purple comb with teal tips. Then I would comb my hair under his supervision and hand it back to him, where he would proceed to hide the comb in the back corner of his sock drawer. He didn't know that I knew the spot, and it didn’t take long before I was borrowing it without authorization. Careful borrowing turned careless pretty quickly, and one day I heard the scraping roll of my dad’s dresser drawer opening, and, then, “who took my comb?” My dad’s voice was so loud and commanding that they used him to be the voice of God in church plays. My heart dropped. Frantically I searched and found it. Handing it back to him, he gave me a disappointed look with a knowing smirk, closed the door and found a new hiding spot, which I never found. 
When asked recently about the comb, he said it is still in his possession and requested to be buried with it, and then added his wish to be buried with my mother, spooning her, though understanding that this might be hard to work out logistically. So much has changed in our lives, and sometimes I think the only thing that's stayed with us materially is our bodies. But not every body. We’ve lost all my grandparents, aunts, and uncles, but he still has the purple comb. It felt like something my dad kept to demonstrate he was different than us — the one thing he could hold to prove he was not completely acquiescent to the chaotic culture of the females he was living with . . . or maybe even to time itself.

Alexandra Vervoordt

Alexandra Vervoordt is an early childhood educator and creator based in New Jersey. She earned her bachelor’s degree in Art and Education from William Paterson University and finds inspiration in play, dance, music, and observing childhood.  Growing up in rural north Jersey, her writing often reflects themes of nature, spirituality, and the spaces in between. When not in the classroom, Alexandra can be found trail running, swimming in rivers, inventing soups, and capturing it all in poetry.  Alexandra does not use social media; to learn more about her work or simply say hello, email at alexandravervoordt@gmail.com.

Headshot: Karen Vervoordt

Photo Credit: Staff