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I will never forget my mother’s hair. She kept it long and cared for it meticulously, brushing it gently each night before going to sleep. When I ran to her as a child after a nightmare, it always smelled like lavender and was soft like a cloud. People on the street sometimes admired her hair, and when she was a maiko, she received many compliments on it. When I got a little older, she let me brush it. We would chat or she would tell me stories or hum lightly.
Whenever I cut hair, I would miss the times I brushed my mother’s hair. I took great care when I cut women’s hair, thinking back on the times when I brushed her hair. They enjoyed how gentle I was and the way I flirted with them to keep them coming back.
The first time I cut Aoba’s hair, I remembered how my mother treated her hair. His hair was soft and I treasured it greatly. He never fully understood why I kept his hair, but his hair was a part of him. I never forgot the bright color of his hair or that he shied away from the slightest touch. He protested constantly when I touched it too much, but I enjoyed the feel of it because it meant so much to me.
It meant he was here with me, and that I could touch something unattainable.
It meant he was mine.