My mom asked me to dye her hair.
I’ve done this a few times before, coating her skin with vaseline and then dipping my fingers into that viscous, purple lotion. When she’d wash it away, her brown hair would be dark purple or chocolate, and then I’d comb her hair until she looked like she was fresh from the salon. We’d repeat this every four months or so, covering up the dullness—as she’d call it—of her natural hair with some shiny, fresh color. She’d look so beautiful, vibrant colors against clean, olive skin. When we’d go out as a family, I envied her burgundy lipsticks matched against a shade of brown, be it Rich Medium Gold Brown or Ebony Mocha or Eggplant Brown. She was gorgeous in her colors, all accents to her engaging and warm spirit.
Tonight, when I split her hair to dye a half-inch from her roots, her hair is a palette of gray that I’m to stain with youthful color. I used to herald my mom an ageless, timeless beauty, but when I see the those white hairs intermingled in with her ‘dull’ natural brown, I’m reminded of life’s uncertainties. There is fear in my throat, in my stomach, it shakes in my hands and I think about the day when one day I will be covering up my own grays and my mother will be just a memory to hold on to. Time is slipping by, one day we will all creak and crack and try to force our youth while slowly crumbling into dust.
I slather on the dye thick, in twenty minutes my mom looks youth and fresh again, there is no gray on her head and she’s powdered away her crows feet. There is a moment of relief where I want to believe that we’ll never be apart in the span of my life, but every time I close my eyes I see seconds turning into birthdays and funerals.
