Brown-eyed Susan

By Delaney Phelps

Mama had beautiful hair. Chestnut brown, thicker than molasses, and it hung all the way down to her waist. Every night of the week, Daddy would sit her down at the foot of his recliner, her back straight against his knees, and brush it while he watched the eight o’clock news. On the weekends, he brushed her hair in the morning, too, and then pulled it back in a loose braid that would fall out within the hour; during the week, she tied it up into some kind of complicated knot after Daddy left for work, and that never budged once. I used to watch her do it, slumped over my cereal before school, the smoothness and ease with which she moved her hands nothing like Daddy’s. When he touched her hair, it was to get the knots out. What on Earth are you doing all day, he’d say. Quit moving. I’m trying to help you.

When she cut it, Daddy cried. One bright winter day, she went to run errands and came back with hair so short it barely brushed the tops of her shoulders. I was speechless at the sight of her slipping her coat off and setting grocery bags down on the kitchen table, as if it was any other day. And Daddy just cried and cried. Why would you do it, he asked her. Why do you wanna hurt me? Mama didn’t say a word. She put the orange juice in the fridge. She let him weep, and I watched her whole body beam with something lovely and new, as brilliant as the almighty sun shining in through the window.