My Grandmother's Hair

My Grandmother was always proud of her hair. When she was young it was copper-bright, thick, and luxurious, falling in waves down to her waist. She once told me that, as a child, she could actually sit on it. My hair was also long, but thinner and a dull, mousy brown. Gran got me into the habit of brushing it 100 times every night until it shone, although it never shone as brightly as hers. I lost that habit when I became a mother of boys, always dashing everywhere, hair cropped conveniently short. So much easier. Gran was shocked when I first saw her after the haircut, but she didn't remark on the functional lack of style. She just ruffled it with her fingers and said I looked like an elf. 

Gran moved slowly but purposefully, always with direction and focus. She had a garden full of herbs and native plants and made potions and lotions to treat a range of common ailments. Hundreds of years ago people would have called her a hedge witch. I wish now that I had taken the time to learn the names and uses of all the plants, to make unctions of my own to cure the many hurts my people suffered. But I didn't, and now it is too late.

The first time Gran got sick, she refused any form of modern treatment, crushing up plants and creating ancient remedies to heal herself. It did work, for a time, although she couldn't smooth the fresh lines of pain from her face or erase the age spots from her hands. Those gentle hands that had made so many things, cured so many ills, brushed my plain hair until it gleamed, became twisted, misshapen, gnarled like tree branches. Her garden became overgrown and wild, and her home gathered dust she no longer had the energy to blow away. I used to sit with her and massage lavender oil into her hands, carefully manipulating the delicate fingers. Then I would brush her white hair 100 times, singing softly as I worked. 

The disease returned, racing through her body like a toxic tornado. She said she still had things to do and accepted a treatment plan. Her hair began to fall out in clumps, and she cried. My youngest son bought her a beautiful scarf and learned how to tie it so she looked glamorous. He would push her in her wheelchair through the garden that he had by then tidied up. She taught him the names of all the plants and their uses. When he made his first potion she sighed with happiness. That night, as the sun began to set in a spectacular show of pinks and oranges, she wheeled herself onto the veranda overlooking the garden. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes for the very last time.