*Seraphine*
I like his laugh, titillatingly hushed as though he’s sharing a secret or engaged in an act of far deeper intimacy. But what I like more is the affection reflected in his voice when he speaks of his sister. “Brave girl,” I say, filling my tone with admiration.
“That’s our Poppy. Don’t think she ever again took scissors to her hair, not even for a bit of a snip.” He applies the brush several times to the end of the strand he holds. Finally, a few of the knots give way. He’s positioned near the middle of the tub’s side, facing me, so I have a clearer view of the triumph that lights his face before he advances to the next set of tangles and begins another battle.
While I had truly considered taking scissors or a knife to my hair, I’m grateful he’s attempting to save it. Even if
