His Mother's Hair

The last time he cut his mother’s hair the rude morning sun left no corner of her kitchen private, the light surgically clean where it fell on his scissors. Her hair fell in a blonde circle on the lake blue tile—smell of coffee and cinnamon; her laughing shook her head, Hold still, he said, his hands surfeit with the curl and softness of her hair. Three weeks after her death, a stranger entered the salon and settled in the chair. She had the color and shape of his mother’s hair, and when he sunk his hands in it, the texture, even cowlicks, individual as freckles—same. Twice he had to leave the room, and twice, he returned—still, when he touched her hair, it blurred.Hold still, he said, hold still.