I had raised three children. One of them had once managed to get chewing gum tangled in nearly half his hair after falling asleep with it in his mouth.
Compared with that, this was a manageable problem.
We worked slowly, using napkins to remove the residue and keeping the hair from sticking to itself.
Kelly returned with a small towel and some additional supplies.
She looked at the scene in front of her: Brittany sitting quietly, me carefully separating strands of blonde extensions, and Harold watching as though he had purchased a ticket to the most unusual performance of his life.
“Is everything under control?” Kelly asked.
“We’re making progress,” I replied.
Brittany nodded.
“She knows what she’s doing.”
Kelly looked relieved.
While we worked, Brittany began talking about her grandmother.
She told me how the older woman used to sit behind her on the porch, gently braiding her hair while telling stories about her childhood.
