"How about a thicker fringe?" My new hairdresser drawled in that sort of knowing way that they have. I agree - do I never learn? She starts to chop and long strands fall into my lap. I look down at them, feel their weight. The brown is flecked with grey now, just a little and the strands attempt to form curls beneath my fingers. I am reminded of the twists of hair that my grandmother used to keep all wrapped in tissue paper inside a pink box on her dressing table, my mothers hair I think, cut from her head when she was a small baby. As a child I was fascinated by the small curl. It resembled hair, light brown and not at all as my mothers was in adulthood but already aged in a way, lifeless and old before its time.
I wondered where I had put the curls from my children, that I collected during their first hair cuts. After several house moves they could be anywhere and had I labelled which curl had belonged to which baby? Probably not.
I picked up the little ball of hair from my lap as she swung me around to 'look at the back' before ushering me to the till - and the colossal bill. I held the severed hair, my hair, not wanting to drop it to the floor. It was warm and resembled, for a moment, a small mammal that needed nurturing.
"Would you like to book your next appointment?" She enquired.