I have five daughters. At different points in their lives they have each worn a waterfall of tresses... blonde, brunette and red. When the first three were young I was the chief hairdresser, playing with French crowns, fishtails, ponies, and barrettes to match their outfit. One daughter who shall remain nameless insisted that I measure the distance of said barrettes from the center part. She now makes her living paying attention to details.
But the twins chose to do each other's hair much earlier than when their sisters stopped needing me. It was handier I suppose to reach across the bed than to wait for a mom who was flipping pancakes downstairs. Hence I was out of the stylist business sooner than expected.
Last weekend the twins embarked on their journeys to study in Europe. Hope flew on Friday, and Aurelle on Sunday. This began the separation of two young women who have been physically close for the last nineteen years. (surely the prenatal months count too)
The morning before she left Aurelle came to me with a brush.
"Will you braid my hair?"
I almost teared up. She has not asked this of me since long before high school, and it was proof that her twin is gone. For a blink of time I wondered if I even remembered how, but braiding it turns out is in the category of riding a bike, and if you shut up your overthinking brain and depend on your hands it works out fine.
I savored the motion of the brush through her soft, waist length hair. It rippled through my fingers, and I found the balance between tugging hard enough to keep it in place for an international flight, and not causing her pain.
Good byes are not always so definitive as this one. More often children waffle between a dorm three hours away, and coming home for the weekend. Or they start a job, and quit, moving into the spare room while they regroup.
But the poignancy of our farewell gives me the opportunity to hold it as the precious gift it is. Maybe I could treat other people as tenderly, even when they are merely going to the store.
