Her fingernails and toenails had all been soaked and clipped, and the pink on her toenails reflected the light from above. Satisfaction seeped from my soul.
“Ma-Maw, it’s time to wash your hair.” I smiled, encouragingly nodded. The long, frayed ends of gray hair were not her normal. No, she’d kept her hair short and tidy for as long as I could remember. I have one picture of her with longer hair, when she was 26.
“No. I don’t need it washed,” she said emphatically.
“Please,” I pleaded.
“Okay.” The defeat in her voice broke my heart.
I had already set the kitchen table with my necessities—warm water, shampoo, towels. I’d have to work quickly.
I walked her fragile self over to the kitchen slowly and carefully, and she sat down in the wooden chair. Though I counted it a privilege, I felt overwhelmed. I had been assigned a task by family and didn’t quite know if I could pull it off. But I’d said I’d do it. And I’d do it. I’d try.
I had to think outside the box because she was too frail to get into the bathtub. Her back was too frail and painful to lean over into the sink. She could barely make it into the car to go to her doctor appointments. Going to a hair dresser deemed out of the question.
Why did I feel like the one deemed useless? I was scared. And I couldn’t have her slipping on that floor. I couldn’t risk another bone in her precious back broken.
I wrapped towels around her soft pink nighty and around the chair. Warm water gently poured from the pitcher in my hand’s grasp over her precious hair. In the middle of the kitchen.
“It’s cold.” She began to pout and cry like a little child. But getting a glimpse of her as a child was precious. A smile grew across my face. It would be over so soon.
With the shampoo rinsed out, I wrapped her in warm towels, slipped a baby blue clean nighty over her sweet head, and led her back to her chair in the living room. Fresh and clean.
“Ma-Maw, it’s time to trim your hair,” I said as I combed her beautiful tangles. The first time I had ever cut her hair. Little did I know, it would be the last.
Every now and then, she’d utter, “That’s good enough.” Her patience was growing thin.
As I dried her hair, I couldn’t wait to curl it, to mask the uneven layers by my imperfect hands.
“Ma-Maw, this is the last curl. Let me just spray it with hair spray, and we’ll be done.” In her weak condition, this was a traumatic experience for her.
“There. All done, Ma-Maw.” I smiled, relief seeping from my weary soul.
“I want to see it.” She stood to her sweet feet like a spring chicken and walked with renewed energy down the hallway and into the bathroom. She looked into the mirror and smiled. “Thank you, Baby. That’s real pretty. I appreciate you for doing that.”
I couldn’t refrain the giggles dispensing from my heart and lips … her attitude had completely changed. It was the best idea she’d ever had.
Because I’m missing my grandmother. Are you missing someone special?
8 thoughts on “Reflecting the Light from Above — A Repost in Honor of Mother’s Day”
Sweet post, Shelli. I can relate. I cared for one of my grandmothers for a couple of years. She had thick waist length hair that she wore in a bun. After I washed her hair, I blow dried it so she wouldn't get chilled. She liked the warmth of the blowdryer's warm air. “That feels good” she would say to me. With my other grandmother, who kept her hair short, I remember setting it in curlers and then styling it so it would look nice. Her regular caregiver had a week off, so I was stepping in. We had her neighbors over for a meal, and they complimented her. The memories are pleasant. I had very wonderful grandmothers. Thanks for giving me cause to rememberi those moments.
That's such a sweet memory, Norma. I guess with all the pictures for Mother's Day, I just really got to missing my grandmother. She was my go-to person on this earth to cry to, laugh with. Thank you, Norma.
Ohhh, this post….do real and honest. I was THERE with you while you did her hair.
Thank you for sharing, my friend.
Aww, Julie. Thank you. xoxo
Beautiful, Shelli. My mom passed away five years ago. I still want to call her with questions and to tell her about the grandkids' latest accomplishments. But I have sweet memories to fill the gaps she left.
I know what you mean, Becky. Sometimes it feels like it's just been a while since I've gone to visit her … you know? But her health had deteriorated so … I'm thankful she's not living like that anymore. But I sure miss her.
Thank you, Melodie.