100 Strokes
Instead of pulling her hair out, Mom made me brush it
Mom sits on the living room floor in front of the sofa, her back against the seat cushions.
I climb up like a monkey on the sofa behind her head, pink lucite hairbrush firmly in hand.
I’m seven. It’s the late 1960s. I can count to 100.
1…2…3…
My job is to brush out Mom’s hair before her beauty salon appointment the next day. One hundred strokes minimum. Tomorrow, her hair will be curled, teased, piled high, and shellacked within an inch of its life. Fortunately, she has thick, dark brown hair that can survive almost anything–even the latest beehive hairdo.
…14…15…16…
I whine a little whenever she asks me to do this very girlie task, but I always give in. Years before, when I was not quite a year old, Mom was carrying me and fell down a flight of stairs. She cut her chin and needed stitches. There wasn’t a scratch on me. At the very least, I owe her a good hair brushing.
…25…26…27…
I move the brush slowly at first, gently tugging at the tangled strands. Our personalities couldn’t be more different. Mom is quiet, reserved, and rarely breaks into a grin. I’m more of a wild child with a big-toothed smile. But with every stroke I feel this weekly ritual somehow brings mother and son closer together. In the years to come, we won’t see eye to eye on many things. But right now, in this moment, the brush glides effortlessly through her deep, shiny strands. Mom closes her eyes and sighs.
…36…37…38…
There will be days when I — now with the help of a younger brother — will push Mom to her limits. “You kids will be the death of me,” we’ll hear more than once. The words “I love you” are harder to come by, but I know what’s in her heart. Love must be like a river flowing inside her that just can’t seem to find its way out. My little brother is skeptical, but I assure him it’s true. I can feel its warm undercurrent tugging at my fingertips every time I smooth down another section of her freshly brushed hair.
…49…50…51…
Mom and I will find ways to show our love for each other as the years go by. She will patch skinned knees, pack lunch boxes, and help me pick out my date’s corsage for a school dance. I will help vacuum carpets, iron Dad’s shirts, bring home good grades, and promise to clean my room.
When I grew out of my childhood innocence and into a self-centered teen, Mom took over my hair-brushing job. I can still picture her sitting alone in front of her vanity mirror, counting silently to herself.
…63…64…65…
She was diagnosed with breast cancer while I was in high school. After a double mastectomy, she had a decent year or so before it returned even stronger. Chemo treatments burned through her thick locks, leaving only scorched wisps behind. Wigs pinned atop faceless styrofoam heads watched over her from the bedroom dresser as she slept.
I hope it’s true that when you die, all your best memories flash before your eyes. I’d like to think the image of her skinny son brushing his mom’s hair got at least a nanosecond of airtime and finally brought a smile to Mom’s face.
…77…78…79…
It’s years later, and my 10-year-old stepdaughter is performing a dance routine to the latest New Kids on The Block album for her mother and me. She’s all shiny face and dimples, with long, chocolate-brown hair. By some fluke, I became her go-to hair braider before school. My clumsy French braids didn’t exactly shout ooh-la-la, but I did my best.
At night, before her bedtime, she pulls out the elastic band, and her hair cascades down her back in dark, twisted waves. Then, she hands me a hairbrush. This I can do with my eyes closed.
…98…99…100
