The rest of the house is asleep. No one moves on the streets, no noises, no moon above.
I turn on the red lamp with brilliant white light, directed immediately to the red couch. I whisper into my son’s room, hold him in my arms, bring him to the light and begin.
Tonight, I start just above his right ear and down to the nape of the neck, over both cowlicks with the mess they cause, and finally to the longer, sun-bleached which lounge across the top. The rest was completed last night.
My son has 89, 812 hairs on his angel head. This is the lowest count this month. The result is possibly due to:
() ocean swimming
() multiple sessions in a rough-and-tumble jumpie
() summer heat in Southern California
() he took a pretty good pop to the head today
Sometimes I rest from the count and watch him sleep, look the windows, or listen for sounds. This week, it took nine hours, and thankfully no start-overs. When he was younger, it was so much easier with less hair. Thankfully, he has brown hair. Brown- haired people have less hair.
I remember 100 (actually hit that count twice after losing some hair as an infant) and 1,000. When he turned five and counted more than 80,000 it became more difficult.
I turn the light and all goes dark. I pat my boy’s brown hair, bring him back to his bed, and cover him. I slide into mine and smile thinking of the number, whispering it out loud. The boy is growing, and everything is normal, everything is beautiful.
BL has been to a million places in life and forgotten most of them. But he is here now and trying.