Hair

The more I swept the floor, the more hair seemed to appear. Some many fine strands of mum's black hair, which appear especially visible on the polished white marble floor. The more I could sweep away the hair, the less mum will feel bad when she sees her own hair all over the place.

At breakfast, she questioned again whether she should appear at brother's wedding, as she's not sure how much hair she would have left in a month's time. Maybe it's the side effects talking...

"I'll go and shave if need be," I said. I had promised to do this before, last time when she did chemo, so mum would feel better about herself. It's just... hair! And I've always wondered how I would look with a shaven head, partly because I sometimes can picture myself living the live of a monk.

"Did you and your brother make a pact?" she asked. And it was then I realised that brother also said he'd shave his hair  if mum lost hers. He would do it, even if it's his wedding day. "How can he do that on his wedding day when he's the star of the event?"

I smiled. "People don't get married for the hair. People don't love a person because of the hair," I said. At least I should hope so. Hair is just strands of dead tissue. Sure, I sometimes do wonder if my hair looks good, and sure having well styled hair does make me feel better about myself. And if I woke up with a bad hair, I would tend to feel ugly and low.

But really... it's just hair!