Diclofenac before combing hair

I combed my hair. For the past two months or so, it has been let to do whatever it wanted, with little interference from me. I washed it, and put a couple of pins to arrange it and then let it be. So it did what hair does; it locked itself. So when I walked into Suqa on an afternoon and proclaimed that I wanted to comb it out, even my stylist feared a little for me.

Sham, my much-favored stylist, is a wonderful woman and she proved her wonderfulness when she asked me, “Are you sure?” And well, of course I was sure. I had prepared for this moment all week, saving and dreading in equal amounts. She then asked someone to get me some diclofenac- because you see, Sham is a jewel and she knew that I would need a drug make it through the combing ordeal.

I gave up many times. I gave up while she washed my hair, and convinced myself that the locking hair look worked just fine for me. I gave up as I waited in the dryer (my hair was treated first). And I gave up again and again, as different potions of my hair were combed out and blow-dried. I reminded myself of those women who wailed over loss, with their legs all over the place and no care for propriety.

I was those women. I did not wail, but until the diclofenac kicked in, I was on display. Parts of me that I didn’t know could sweat were heated up and all my muscles, in solidarity, fought alongside the scalp; waiting in dread, clenching in pain, then relaxing in the few moments when the comb finally goes through easy.

Thank heavens, and the manufacturers of diclofenac, that I did not leave my head in Suqa. (Wouldn’t that be really cool though? Detach head, it gets combed and then you pick it up later. Zero pain. Okay, I’m watching too much television).