From the moment I was born, my hair was the bane of my mother’s existence.
It was red and curly and wild. She tried to tame it. She pulled and tussled with my tangles. There were braids and straighteners. Curlers that I wore to bed, smelly hair gels that left it sticky.
Cut short, left long always, “Why can’t you do something nice with your hair, like your sister?"
So, it came as quite surprise when she whispered to me after my third chemo treatment that she’d always loved my hair.
It was red and curly and wild. She tried to tame it. She pulled and tussled with my tangles. There were braids and straighteners. Curlers that I wore to bed, smelly hair gels that left it sticky.
Cut short, left long always, “Why can’t you do something nice with your hair, like your sister?"
So, it came as quite surprise when she whispered to me after my third chemo treatment that she’d always loved my hair.
