Scalp

One by one, friends gloved their hands and got to work; my ridged, lumpy canvas morphing and shifting, follicles taking on new forms every fortnight.

Image credits: Long Huynh

Last winter mum had her hair shaved. Her gentle head held by doctors as strands kissed the hospital floor. A shiny new scalp ready for surgical incision.

A month later, I shaved my hair. Head held by my housemate on our living room floor, a shiny new scalp ready to be decorated.

One by one, friends gloved their hands and got to work; my ridged, lumpy canvas morphing and shifting, follicles taking on new forms every fortnight.

Each dye date was time spent just for two. We became active practitioners in intimacy as they reached inside my brain, leaving a trail of dye streaks, bleach marks, paint shapes, outlines, and colours in their wake.

By the time mum was able to walk again, her hair had grown out in the shape of a tulip.

“You look like Faye Wong in Chungking Express,” I told her.

She didn’t know who that was.

“Vương Phi,” I translated.

“Oh, she’s really pretty. That’s OK then.”

“What’s wrong with your head? Are you healthy?” she asks, mistaking the splotches of red in a grown-out Van Gogh as bruises.

“It’s just dye, just for fun. Don’t worry about me.” I know she will. “How are your legs feeling?”

“I can walk fine now. Don’t worry about me.” 

She knows I will.