There used to be an armoire that sat next to a window in my parents’ bedroom.  Its facade was a mirror, bordered by an expensively finished wood that sparkled when the afternoon sun cast its shadow through the window.  I have vivid memories in front of that armoire, happy memories.  Lighter ones, not yet crippled by the weight of my future.
     I would sit cross legged on the floor in front of the exquisite piece of furniture and blink at my olive skin and thick, dark eyebrows gazing back at me.  I remember cringing when she came and sat behind me, weapon of torture in hand... The dreaded hairbrush.
     I'd pull away and whine, even cry, as my mother battled through my nine-year-old bed head.  Shying away from the tug of her touch, I quietly, expectantly, snuck glances at my reflection in the mirror, knowing all too well that the finished product would be worth the tears.
     And it never disappointed.
     The knots transformed into glossy black waves, floating down my narrow back all the way to my tailbone.  I felt prized, pampered, pretty.
     But beauty is an odd thing - ephemeral.
     In what seemed like no time at all, my hair would return to the tangles and knots of its original state.  My mother used to say that it was just something about that age, that we were stuck with perpetual bed head.  The way I see it, nothing good can last forever.
    My mother no longer brushes my hair.