Freckles(73)

You have magic hands, I say to her and she grins, aha, as though she’s heard it a thousand times and knows it already. She combs my wet hair so that it’s perfectly straight.

How much would you like off. I think to here, yes. Get rid of the split ends. It’s two inches.

Yes, whatever, I don’t care, whatever takes the longest amount of time. Keep touching me, fussing over me, make it last forever. I don’t know why I didn’t do this months ago. I could have been having this contact with her for the past six months. I nod in response to her.

When did you last have it cut.

Almost seven months ago. I think back. Marion did it in her kitchen, the week before I. Before the home salon, before the goosebump baby that’s probably now the size of an apple. My mother can’t believe it’s been such a long time. How often should I get it done, I ask her, and listen to her again about the weather, and the seasons and what signs to look out for and again I take it all in. Maybe I’ll begin a Mother book, documentation of all the things she’s ever said directly to me, like a scrapbook, so by the end of my life it will be full and rich and proof of a relationship over time and motherly advice. Tips from my mother to pass on to my daughter. From the grandmother she’d never met, or did meet when I brought her to the salon with me, in a buggy, or had her first haircut, all by a mother and grandmother who never knew. And why did you never tell her, my daughter will ask, and I’ll smile, a secret kind of smile and say, I never told her, but she knew, pet, she knew.

She’s quiet now, concentrating as she gets the ends even. Pulling them down and checking the levels. I study her face, now that she’s not watching me. Every gesture. Now and then her stomach or her boobs press against the back of my head and I think, I was in there. Her fingers brush against my skin and I think: Those hands held me, those fingers touched me, at least once. This part I don’t know, maybe they lifted me out of the room straight away, but wouldn’t the midwife have placed me on to her naked chest, skin to skin, not for her benefit but for mine. The midwives would have cared, wouldn’t they. I look at her chest in her low-cut wrap dress, shiny moisturised, great skin, a necklace with a heart that is trapped in her cleavage. I wonder if Fergal gave it to her.

I would ask Pauline these things about the hospital but she wouldn’t know. My mother gave birth alone. Driven to Tralee maternity hospital by my mad cousin Dara who wouldn’t tell me much more. Pops was there, of course, in a waiting room or downstairs at reception, or wherever he was allowed to be, but no one was with her, no one but the midwife. I don’t know how moving or cold our first and final moments were together. Not final, I remind myself, for look at us now. Reunited.

She’s happy with the length, she can talk again.

You have the day off today, she says.

Yes.

What do you do.

And it was going so well. Perhaps it is our final moment, Carmencita, I think to myself. I take a moment then turn to her, even though I can see her in the mirror. I need to connect to her in real life, not make the stupid mistake with her that I made before. We’ve actually met before I say in a gentle polite voice, in a not so pleasant way that I’d like to apologise for.

She takes a step back, slightly, moves away, body language reads defensive, I know because I learned conflict management. She readies herself.

You know, I thought that there was something familiar about you.

My heart skips a beat at that. Did she feel something, a connection.

So did we meet, she asks. Tell me the terrible thing that I did. She’s trying it keep it light but I can see how much she has tensed up. A defensive woman who always likes to be right, does not like to be surprised.

You did no terrible thing, I smile. I’m the parking warden who issued you a ticket last week.

You, she says loudly, and the others stare. But you don’t look like … you. Lady, high-vis yellow is not your colour, she laughs.

I know, I smile. I’m sorry about how it all transpired, I wanted to come here and I wasn’t sure if you’d recognised me.

No no, well I didn’t. I would have said. Of course. As soon as you stepped in, I would have said something. Well, well, well. She’s flustered. She’s annoyed. She planned on holding a grudge forever and I’ve ruined it. Now I’m a customer and there’s nothing she can do. She doesn’t know what to say, she doesn’t look at me as she picks up the hairdryer and blasts my hair. Angrily. Not too dissimilar to how Pops would do it. Hair flies across my face and whips my eye.

I’ve ruined it.

My hair is so thick it takes a while and after fifteen minutes of no more talk, which I’m not sure there could have been anyway due to the noise, she switches it off.

I’ve never seen my hair look so beautiful and I say so. She has softened over time and this certainly helps. I’m waving the white flag and I hope, I think, she sees it.

Good, good, this makes me happy.

She removes the towel from my shoulders and our time is running out. Knowing who I am now, she may never want to take my booking again. Or she’ll take the booking and allow somebody else to do it. She doesn’t seem like one to turn away business. I feel desperate that this is the end of our physical connection. I don’t want to leave. I look at the nail bar.

I don’t suppose you have time for nails, I ask.

Ooh I don’t think so. I don’t think she’s lying because she’s looking through her bookings. Hmm. Not today and tomorrow, Saturday we’re fully booked. Closed on Sunday. Monday is quiet.