With a sigh,

she pulls herself to her tiled chamber.

Switch,

she turns to face her twin.

Tilting her head side to side,

she reaches up,

to run her fingertips along

the bumps and dips

on her forehead

and around her eyes.

But to her

her ridges rub like sandpaper,

She chews her tongue.

She mistakes the gray streaks

in her hair

for dirt,

her body like a rose

that discolors

and decays.

She hopes to wash away

her age in the shower.

Yet as she sat naked

on her bed

curling her arms around

her legs in a hug,

with her wet hair

caressing her back,

she felt like a siren

bathed in moonlight—

old enough,

to have mastered the art

of luring men to sea.

“Waters ready, hen” Ian called from the crofts’ kitchen

Moira rose from the high backed chair, towel draped over her shoulders and walked towards the sink. Kneeling on the padded stool she bowed forwards, Ian, surprisingly gentle, caught up her long hair and lifted it into the water. He took a little of her favourite violet scented shampoo and began massaging it into the roots of her hair, then down the hank of it right to the ends. It was still red, this wild flaming hair, still as red as the day he met her running up the track to the tarn, a few silver skeins ran through it now, as was only right after two bairns and now, a life on the croft. Ian swilled the shampoo out of her hair and began massaging conditioner in, it smelt of heather he thought and cream and strawberries, of summer days when the bairns were home, picnics and long walks. Moira was thinking of her children too, of how when Aisla was born she could fit in Ians huge hands and yet how he was so gentle with her. “All clean now” Ian said wringing out her tresses like hanks of wool then wrapping a towel, turban like, round her head.

“Ah it’s been a good life” he said

“ock what do mean? it’s not over yet, this” as she nodded towards the casts on her arms “is only temporary, they come off in two days, nothing has changed”

Nothing, he thought, nothing except for the first time he’d stood up to his bossy mother-in-law, called her a bitch and thrown her out of their house.

The house they rented from his wifes’ parents.

They had moved back here five or was it six years ago, ostensively for Moira to help his father-in-law, David, with the croft. The children had gone on to university and Moira was restless so it had seemed a good choice. But the elephant in the room right from the outset was Beth, she treated her daughter as an unpaid skivvy, expecting her to be at her beck and call all day, running not just the croft but keeping house for her parents as well. She’d taken to walking into their home unannounced whenever she had wanted anything done and was inevitably rude to him, Ian had found himself working late, having a few extra drinks of an evening and taking on other work at weekends, it wasn’t doing his marriage any good.

He shuddered as he remembered the day of the accident, they had been on Stony Top with the dogs, bringing the flock down for drenching. He’d seen it all, the hermit ram charge out from its lair in the gorse, Moira starting to jump sideways her foot snagging a heather root, the awkward landing on the scree and her scream as she pitched head first into the gully. He’d ran, but as he’d been on the other side of Donnys’ bog, it had took him a minuet and a half to get there, it had seemed to take a life time.

The rest of the day was a blur, the drop into the gully was neither long enough for her to tuck and roll, yet too big a drop to get away with just bruising. He remembered carrying her down to the road, he must have rung for help as the ambulance was there. He remembered pacing up and down white corridors, being told she was to stay in overnight for observation, mild concussion they said, a broken radius, a cracked ulna, fractured wrist. Six weeks in a cast, she would need personal care. He went home in a daze. He wondered why the dogs were lying by their kennels untethered as he fed them, then sat down on the sofa and the tears came.

Moira’s hair is nearly dry in the warmth of the sitting room he fetches the brush and begins detangling it. It seems redder than ever in the evenings firelight. He shudders to think what almost happened.

The day Moira came home, Beth came bustling in like an angry bantam hen bossing him about picking faults, blaming him for the mishap, forgetting the hermit ram was only there because David wouldn’t get rid of it. He was in the kitchen when he heard his wife yelling

“no no get off me”

He came in to see Beth wielding an old pair of sheep shears.

“tell her, tell her Ian not to cut my hair off”

“what the hell do you think you are doing!”

“Och well I’m not going to wash and brush these lanky locks, an she canny do it herself, bad enough when she were a bairn.”

“leave it, I’ll do it”

“ye canny braid and mind hair”

“I did my daughters I’ll do it for my wife”

“ye canny look after her she’ll need, well, personal things done”

“I can and I will and I’m starting now, so thank you Beth we’ll be glad if you’d leave now”

“ye canny kick me oot, she’s my daughter”

The resentment, hurt and anger of the past few years boiled up inside him.

“get out” he bellowed

“get out now, ya meddling old bitch”

Beth went white and scuttled out the door.

Hearing a stifled choking sound he turned round to apologise to Moira only to see was giggling

“Oh Ian, that was magnificent!”

And they both started laughing.

Now in the fire light Ian is sitting behind her, twisting her violet scented hair into a long loose braid.

“Cast’s off of Friday you won’t have to do this anymore”

“well I won’t have to, doesn’t mean I don’t want to”

He leans forward and kisses the back of her neck

“your wrong you know, every thing has changed and it doesn’t matter at all”

She had beautiful hair. Though she was not ugly, she had never been the prettiest girl at school. But her hair! Her hair was the most beautiful. A perfect mix of her mother’s straight blond hair and the dark curls of her father.

She was constantly receiving compliments about her long, big brown curly hair.

The hairdresser would say:

“Your head, my dear, is a hairdresser’s dream.”

Old women she’d pass by in the parc would comment:

“This child is nice and pretty. Look at her beautiful and well-maintained hair.”

Girls at school would ask:

“What is your secret? I wish I had your hair.”

She was quite popular with the boys and was always getting multiple prom proposals.

Her hair was her pride and hearing people sing praises about it was filling her with joy. Every morning before leaving the house, she would look at herself in the mirror and adjust some rebel curls.

Her hair was beautiful.

So, when the summer ended and she started senior year, it was a big surprise to see that her magnificent hair had been cut and dyed red. Three weeks later the red was replaced by blue. Then green. Then a half dozen of other color and cut combinations.

It was a fruitful subject of conversation.

The hairdresser would say:

“What a pity. It was perfect before. She doesn’t even come to the salon anymore.”

Old women she’d pass by in the parc would comment:

“Another rebel teenager. Look at her outrageous hair. It’s a shame. She was a good kid.”

Girls at school would ask:

“What is your secret? This haircut would look perfect on my dog.”

At which the boys would laugh and invent new jokes about her hair.

As much as the compliments once made her feel good and confident, the newly hurtful remarks were like punches in the guts.

Now, every morning before leaving the house, she looks at herself in the mirror. She takes the wig laying on the table and adjusts it on her head to cover the few remaining patches of hair left on her skull after chemotherapy.