Threads of Friendship: Beyond Bowling and Black Hair

My black hair. It’s stupid, I know. But standing there at Sunset Lanes, all I could think about was how different I looked, how my dark hair might somehow make me stand out in a way that would make Mitchell uncomfortable. Irrational, right? But these thoughts spiral in my head like a bowling ball careening down the wrong lane.

I’d invited Mitchell to bowl, but as we stood there, my insecurities bubbled up. “My hair,” I’d start to say, my voice trailing off. Mitchell would look at me, that patient look he gets—the one that says he’s listening, really listening.

“What about your hair?” he’d ask, genuinely confused.

And I’d stumble through my explanation. How my black hair felt like some kind of barrier, some weird thing that might make our friendship complicated. Mitchell would listen, and then he’d laugh. Not a mean laugh, but the kind of laugh that breaks tension.

“Your hair?” he’d say. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

Suddenly, the bowling alley would feel too small, too loud. The rental shoes would feel too tight. And we’d look at each other and just know—we weren’t going to bowl today.

Instead, we’d walk. Down Main Street, past the old movie theater, around the corner where the sidewalk gets uneven. Mitchell would talk about nothing and everything. I’d listen, my black hair forgotten, my insecurities melting away with each step.

“Chimichangas?” I’d suggest.

“McDonald’s,” he’d counter.

We’d compromise on both. Sitting there, greasy food between us, my hair would be just my hair. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Friendship isn’t about looking the same. It’s about seeing each other, truly seeing each other. And in that moment, Mitchell saw me—black hair and all.