her hair!”
I turned around.
“What?”
“Saturday. She’s donating it now.”
That weekend, Goldie’s father invited several families to the salon.
When we arrived, Goldie was already sitting in the chair.
Her enormous hair had been divided into several thick braids.
The hairdresser showed her where the new length would fall.
Just above her shoulders.
Goldie looked at her father.
“Is that okay?”
He shook his head.
“Don’t ask me.”
She blinked.
Then he smiled.
“It’s your hair.”
Goldie smiled too.
“Okay.”
The hairdresser picked up the scissors.
Goldie’s father suddenly turned away.
“Dad.”
He looked back.
His eyes were wet.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
He gave a weak laugh.
“No. I’m not.”
Then he knelt beside her chair.
“I need to tell you something.”
Goldie took his hand.
“I kept telling myself this was your mother’s promise,” he said. “But it wasn’t only that.”
Goldie listened.
“After she
