Hair. Gray hair. Gray-white hair. Hair that you just had taken care of.
I walked you out to the dark blue Fiat Fiesta, worrying at every step. Down the stairs, along the stone pathway, all the way into the car. Worrying that you might trip and fall. You were so frail. You had a bad leg. Ricordi when I was twelve, we’d walk to mass together. I was always walking ahead of you, annoyed that you were so slow, and I had to get to mass early because I was an altar girl, but I wanted to be with you too. Then, when I stopped going you never asked, or prodded, or demanded to know why I wouldn’t go.
But I took you to the hairdresser like a religious event. Walking in, kneeling at the entrance with holy water pressed to your forehead, chest, shoulder to shoulder. Just like you, I dye my hair because you started to go gray so early. I inherited your genes, and at times I look in the mirror and see you in my smile, my eyes, my silvering hairs. Ricordi that day I came over and it took you longer to answer in your green and red paisley-patterned robe with your hair under a bonnet. And for some time, I didn’t realize that you were dyeing it, because I thought you were young, and you would be with me forever.
I remember when you stopped, and I started to notice your silver strands coming in and I asked you why and you just said Perché no?
Like Christmas mass, we went to the hairdresser. Just like a priest, doing his special sermons, serving the body of Christ and sending us in peace, she sat you down in the chair and I sat in the room watching. Waiting for the holy experience. She rigorously went through the steps of your haircare talking, and you’d laugh, and laugh, and you looked so pretty. And at the end, I praised and praised you and you smiled so big all the wrinkles showed but that just made you more beautiful. Ricordi that I took you home and you moved carefully to make sure your hair didn’t get ruined, and I walked you back into the house to make sure you were safe. I kissed you on the cheek and told you Ti voglio bene. Kneeling at the altar of my Nonna Maria.
And you said with a big smile Grazie, anch’io.