It's Always About the Hair

Mom's energy has been sapped lately from struggling to breathe. She's sleeping a lot.

Sometimes she appears to be just plain sad. I always assume some deep or morbid reason for her sadness --the loss of loved ones, impending death.

What's wrong? I asked her last week.

"I can't do ANYTHING with this HAIR!" she said.

"At last! Something we can do something about!" I replied, and called our trusty traveling beauty stylist.

Becky pulls into the driveway and strides to the door with her big black bag.

Mom is waiting upstairs in the wheelchair, determined to have Becky trim her hair

just right this time--shorter in the back, longer in the front, just the right amount on the sides--it's no easy task to please a woman when it comes to her haircut.

Becky steps back to check her work after the last snip. Mom's been transformed into her luminous self.

Her eyes crease with a smile as she gazes in the silver mirror I hold before her. She lifts the puff of hair on her forehead to form a beautiful curl and smiles at herself.

"I feel like a new woman!" she says sounding stronger and happier than she has in days. Now there's a home remedy worth repeating!