Brush Gently
I was brushing my granddaughter’s hair the other morning after she spent the night with us.
A flood of memories washed over me as my hands worked her hair into a loose braid.
My mother spent a lot of time with my hair when I was a child.
Braiding it or putting it in a pony tail for school.
Combing pine sap out of it after a day spent climbing trees.
Untangling that little “rat’s nest” that used to form at the nape of my neck when I didn’t brush my hair for days because I was too busy playing.
I can still here her saying, “Oh, for the love of God!” as she tried to work through it.
Last weekend when I took Nora home, I remember apologizing because I hadn’t brushed her hair that morning. Then again, I hadn’t brushed mine either.
Most mornings, I run my fingers through my hair, twist it into a knot, and put a scrunchy on it.
~~~
When I was growing up, my hair was everything. I always had the longest hair of us girls and to me, it was my distinguishing feature, my claim to fame so to speak.
I was the Lester girl with the really long hair.
Right up until I wasn’t.
Mom had set aside a day to cut our hair-me and my sisters Sue and Lou. I pestered her the whole time she was cutting my sisters’ hair to make sure mine was still the longest. When she finally got to me, she was so annoyed, she grabbed my braid and whacked it off.
Consequently, I have one school picture with short hair.
~~~
When I was about eleven, my mom sent me to a shop on Main Street to get my hair trimmed. I came home in tears.
They had cut about eight inches off.
I was devastated.
~~~
When my mom was in the hospital and grandma stayed with us, she would make my ponytail so tight that my face was forced into a smile for the day. That always gave me a headache.
~~~
When I went into the Navy, I got a short haircut (at that same place on Main Street).
My hair was hideous, but I didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings.
I wore my hat home.
Thankfully, my mom fixed it for me. (Yay, mom!)
~~~
There’s something about doing someone’s hair that feels intimate.
There has to be a level of trust there.
If you have a good hairdresser, You might think twice about moving for fear you won’t find another that’s as good (i.e., that you can trust with your hair).
My granddaughter only allowed me to brush and braid her hair if I promised to do it “gently” and hopefully, she’ll let me do it again.
Want to show someone how much you love them?
Brush their hair… gently.
~~~
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I saw this post from an Alzheimer’s page on FaceBook and your post today made me think of it, so I thought I would share it…
In Illinois, a hairdresser by the name of Sara Verkuilen received an unexpected and touching note.
Sara works at a salon and a letter was left for her. A man had come in with his wife for a haircut in December and he told Sara that she was suffering from dementia. Just when the quarantine got its start in March, his wife passed away.
He wrote the note because the hairdresser had done something amazing for the 2 of them. She showed his wife all of the kindness and patience that she needed. The letter reads: “You treated her as if you’d been working with dementia patients all your life. You let us sit next to each other, and when it came time for her cut you turned her chair towards me so I could watch her expression as you cut her hair.”
Once the coronavirus pandemic caused the lockdown to start, the wife found it difficult to manage. The letter described the haircut as one of the “last, best moments of her life.”
“She felt so pretty. She visited the mirror in her bathroom several times during the day and would come out beaming,” the letter goes on. “To see her so happy was priceless.”
Sara was touched that she had received such a special letter. She posted it to Facebook, including the caption: “This is why I love what I do. Thank you for this letter.”
Thanks for sharing that, it’s very sweet! Mom’s hairdresser, Denise, used to come to the house to take care of mom’s hair and eventually, dad’s. They loved her like she was one of us. ❤