I turned around.
“What?”
“On Saturday. He’s going to donate it now.”
That weekend, Goldie’s father invited several families to the hairdresser.
When we arrived, Goldie was already sitting in the chair.
His huge hair had been divided into several thick braids.
The hairdresser showed him how far the new length would go.
Just above the shoulders.
Goldie looked at her father.
“Is it okay like this?”
He denied with his head.
“Don’t ask me.”
She blinked.
Then he smiled.
“It’s your hair.”
Goldie smiled, too.
“Agree.”
The hairdresser took the scissors.
Goldie’s father suddenly turned around.
“Dad.”
He looked back.
Her eyes were wet.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you are not.”
He let out a weak laugh.
“No. I’m not.”
Then he knelt next to the chair.
“I have to tell you something.”
Goldie took her hand.
“I kept telling myself that this was your mother’s promise,” she said. “But it wasn’t just that.”
Goldie listened.
“After he died, brushing your hair became… important to me.”
His voice broke.
“Your mom used to worry about all the normal things she would miss. Prepare for school. Birthday. Dances. Photos.”
He wiped his face.
“Taking care of your hair made me feel like I was still doing something for her.”
Goldie squeezed her fingers.
“I like it when you fix my hair.”
“I know.”
She smiled faintly.
“Only not with so much hair.”
He laughed in tears.
“That’s fair.”
Then he got serious.
“I’m sorry, Goldie. I should have listened to you before.”
Goldie’s lip trembled.
“Your mother wanted us to do something good. I would never have wanted that promise to become a punishment.”
“I still want to donate it.”
“I know.”
“And maybe I’ll let it grow again.”
He blinked.
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
She smiled.
“But not up to the knees.”
“Deal done.”
“And if I hate it, I’ll cut it.”
“Agree.” chafar mangoli
“Even before you turn seventeen?”
He squeezed his hand.
“Especially before I turn seventeen.”
The hairdresser lifted the first braid.
“List?”
Goldie took a deep breath.
“List.”
The scissors closed.
The first braid fell.
His father covered his mouth.
