Grandma’s Hair
Donna Dellinger

I stepped into the beauty supply shop.
My sister followed me in.
Boxes of hair dye on the wall
Seemed to go on forever.
The one we needed to buy would.

Neither of us had ever colored our hair.
One thing we had in common.
That and the freckles on our faces
Except she kept hers under makeup.
She was a fluffy redhead
Still coiffed from the eighties.
I was a dishwater blonde,
Stringy and plain.

Grandma would be dressed in her light blue satin dress
With the matching overlay of lace.
Right now, her hair was grey
Just as we had seen it in the hospital,
Grey and wiry and wild.
And that would not do.
When we were to see it for the last time,
It had to be "her" hair color,
The one she had always chosen carefully,
The one we would remember her by.

Marmalade, Ginger, Sunset, Platinum.
We read the enticing labels.
We studied the pictures,
And swatches of tints,
And samples of shades.
But it was none of those.
Then we looked at each other,
And we looked at each other’s hair.

The saleslady came up to us.
"May I help you?" she asked with lipstick lips.
"We are trying to find the right color."
There was only a hint of cracking in my sister’s voice.
"Who is it for?" the lips continued.
"It’s for our grandmother," I replied.
Should we tell her what we’re doing?
I could tell my sister was thinking the same thing,
But she didn’t say anything about it either.

I lifted a wisp of my hair.
My sister did the same.
We stood close to each other.
Our tilted heads touching,
The strands intermixed,
And we held them up.
"We’re looking for this color," I said.

The lady handed us two boxes –
Strawberry Shortcake and Sunshine.
We bought them both to give to the man.
Then my sister and I walked out of the store,
Together.