I start by spraying detangler on the gnarled mass at the back of her head
Red and matted
Natural curls, dreaded so not a single finger can pass freely through
I stare at what she would have called a rats nest
Had she been me and it been 20 years earlier
Gathering her hair together at the nape of her neck, holding the pony tail with one hand so she won’t feel the pain of the brush
I begin the work she must have done so many times during my childhood
I tell her that the tendrils of silver framing her face are lovely
That I hope my hair follows suit
As my fingers work, I remember that my brother taught me how to braid and that while I can remember my dad brushing my hair, if my mother ever did, I don’t recall it
Hair parted neatly, one straight long braid down her back
Her face is blank, but I imagine a smile
“You look beautiful.” I say
She thanks me, tells me I have a stain on my shirt that makes it look like I’m breastfeeding and shuffles away
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