I touched her arm, and she jolted. “You all right?”
“My arms … they’ll be okay.” Mom looked at my hair and burst out crying. “I’m so sorry. You worked so hard to grow it just right!” She hugged me.
I cried too.
Once our crying passed, Mom cleared her throat. “I know what we can do with your hair. Let’s go.”
She drove us to her friend Lucy who lived on West Oak Street. She was a hairstylist who ran The Perfect Cut on Suffolk Street.
I waited in the car while Mom knocked on her front door. Moths flickered like mad around the porch light. I couldn’t hear their whispers, but Lucy’s face changed from displeasure to concern as she beckoned me to get out of the car.
Lucy set me up in her kitchen while Mom sat at the table and watched. She tried to drink some tea, but she left the mug untouc
