by Leanne Grabel
At 95. She stopped coloring her hair. Let it go gray. Like granite. In her youth. Her hair. Black as patent leather shoes. Like my father’s. And my brother’s. And mine. Not my sister’s. Hers was orange. Like a crayon. She had eyes like ripe limes. So jealous of her colors. But. My mother’s hair. After black. It was auburn. Then brown. Bronze. Then golden blonde. Strawberry blonde. Apricot. Until last year. Gray like a Weimaraner. Round as a melon. Her caregiver set it in rollers. Every Saturday. Sat her under a standup dryer. Her hair looked better than ever. I liked it. It was puffy. It was always way puffier than mine. So jealous of her puffy. She had twice as much hair as I ever did. And she let me know it.