Mum's Hair Brush!

As Mum slowly slipped away, I looked around the room. It was stark in comparison to her other visits. There was a bag of medication on the floor and a hairbrush on her table and that was it. The minutes after Mum's death were deeply moving for all of us there, but Mother had gone, her spirit had left the room when she breathed her last. Talking had turned to crying, as it was time to say that final goodbye.

Rebecca, the nurse in charge had asked that we remove all Mum's personal effects when we are ready to leave. Dad said he wanted to stay until the sun came up, not wanting to leave Mum alone in the dark. It's not easy leaving the lady you were married to behind, after spending fifty two years together, every day of your life. Mum and Dad were inseparable, loving each other deeply, since they met at school in the 1960s. They were childhood sweethearts then, as they were when Mother finally passed away. The love and affection on my Father's face was as clear as day; he didn't want to let go, he didn't want to say goodbye.

I walked over to the bedside table and picked up Mum's hairbrush and said I would take it home with me, as a small reminder. After I removed her glasses and closed her eyes, I finally brushed her hair, as my Father had done many times before. Mum always had perfect hair. No matter how ill she was, there was always a hairbrush not too far away. Ever inch a lady she looked immaculately turned out without exception, wanting to look perfect, even in hospital. As I gently brushed her hair, I thought about all the times, she had done the same for me and I was happy to do it for her one last time. Mum was lying there fast asleep and I wanted to make sure she looked perfect before we left.

Both my parents were hairdressers, which explains why they always wanted to look their best.   As a child I was used to seeing friends and family coming round our house, coiffured, pampered and permed, made to look a million dollars. Old ladies, scary, without makeup, hair backcombed high, a purple scarf to protect them from the elements, a bit of lippy  before they went outside. I would find hair clips that had gone astray lying in the carpet, walked around pretending to be a monster, claw like hands, with hair rollers on each finger and inhaling the setting lotion and peroxide bleach, holding my nose for dear life.

Growing up as a hairdressers son was never dull, I had more Uncles and Aunts than I can remember. Fawned over by ladies, ruffing my hair and feeding me sweets, I enjoyed being sat in a chair listening to those stories hairdressers and clients talk about. Cups of tea, digestive biscuits and magazines, all part of the course when you are a hairdresser son!

Mum's hairbrush is the most precious thing in the World to me, a reminder of someone who brought me into this World, loved me unconditionally and was proud to call me her son, no matter how bad I may have been at times. Loosing someone close is hard,  the hardest thing I have ever experienced. Writing, remembering and reminiscing allows me to come to terms with loss, but tangible memories are a link to Mum, who is no longer with us. Whether a piece of jewellery, photograph or hairbrush, the meaning is the same - The love a Mother has for her sons and a bond that will always be there!