70's Porno Music

Beverly

August 21st, 1973

I remember when my mom used to press my hair. Every other, Saturday so that it what fresh for church the next morning.

She would make me wash up first while she cooked supper that would able to bubble on the stove.

My brother was a tiny thing. My dad and him would be sitting up in the family room, sneaking some chocolate. 

My mother's hands were long and dainty. She would usually wear red nail polish or a clear coat. Her fingers were always so warm. Running through my hair, parting, combing...

We sat in the kitchen. A hot comb on the stove and one running through my hair. She battle between the two with a old cloth on her side.

I was tender headed. I knew. She would whisper to me to squeeze my eyes shut really hard when there was a particular part she knew would hurt.

Count to three sweetie. 1... 2...3... You're okay, yeah?

I stared at myself for hours today. In my bathroom mirror. I've never cried so much. Many my throat started to hurt.

Large chunks of black coils were littered around me. On cold tile that were the exact opposite temperature of my mother's hands.

I used my dad's old clippers. Out of all the things I could have kept of his, it was those.

I hated that I still managed to miss him. But it is in a different way than I miss my mother. Last memory: Cold hands, open casket. And my little brother. Last memory: Full of fear.

I miss my dad in a way where I dream of the person he could of been.

I miss my mother and brother for what they were.

They say that daughters usually look the most like their fathers.

God, it was like looking straight at him.

That wasn't so bad, sweetie.. Was it? We're all done. You look great.

Shopping List:
- hats lots of hats