Worthy Witness

Yesterday, my niece washed my hair.  It was different that any other hair dressing appointment.  She washed it with an intimacy of love.

Hair washing with love demands that the temperature of the water be correct, that gentle pressure be applied to the scalp, intuitive  knowledge for the  rub and rinse.  It requires nothing of the person in the chair, but when applied with love, there is a sweet compliance, a release.  In silence, tender images flash with fleeting memories that beg to be touched.

As Terri applied the color to my hair, we talked about the ritual of hair washing between mother and child.  She told of her experiences with her children, and I told her of mine with my mother.  Often, long years ago, when I was moping and out of sorts, perhaps something had gone wrong at school or my boyfriend hadn’t called, my mother would sense the need to stop the world and allay my hurt by washing my hair, an intimate act, like summer’s soft rain falling on skin warmed by the sun.