hair memory

One time a friend took out a tiny hairbrush from her bag and asked if she could do my hair. It felt so gentle, so calming. She joked, “Jane, can you be my daughter?” That’s a precious memory.

Always feels that way when someone does my hair. Doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s lovely. When they brush, braid, or plait it. I never learned how to do plaits or braids, and my fingers are so clumsy I’m scared to try.

Funny thing is I’m normally scared of letting people get too close to my hair. When I was a kid, people would sometimes “joke” about cutting it off. That’s one reason why I’ve never been to a hairdresser. (Another is I can’t stand the feeling of fallen hair fragments getting under my clothes.) But a trusted friend doing something gentle with it is different.

One time a different friend stroked my hair with her hand and said it felt soft, like a cat’s fur. Also a precious memory.

My hair remembers.