And I stood in front of the mirror alone.
I looked at my reflection for a long time.
Clear glass. No waves. No water. Just me.
I thought about Grandma Lena standing behind me in that little farmhouse bedroom. You’re pulling too hard, Nicky. Gentle. Your hair didn’t do anything to you.
I went upstairs and got my hairbrush.
I came back down, and I stood in front of the mirror, and I took my hair out of its bun. And I brushed it. Slowly. Gently. I counted out loud, the way she used to.
One. Two. Three.
By twenty, I was crying. By fifty, I was laughing at myself for crying. By a hundred, I was just standing there, breathing, with my hair smooth and shining over my shoulders.
Dad was leaning in the kitchen doorway holding two cups of coffee. I don’t know how long he’d been there.
