brush from the bottom

I brush your hair, chestnut brown without the slightest kink; it hangs long and straight, a line down your back; start from the bottom, you remind me each time, though each strand is like silk and the brush glides effortlessly; besides, I like to take my time, before our days begin; one side and then the other, finally pulling it back into your customary ponytail; just occasionally you'll let me make a plait. When you were small I would make intricate french plaits; not any more. There was a fringe too; we grew that out; it's nice to see your pretty face. And then you take the brush and begin to run it through my hair; your hands are gentle and go at a lazy pace. I close my eye and feel the bristles, so slight, against my scalp; too much colouring and styling has taken its toll, or perhaps it's just time; my hair as coarse as yours is soft; There you go, you say.
© the dishonest woman