I brushed Prole2’s hair today.
Since his Joan of Arc/Miley Cyrus cut at the hairdressers I have hardly had to do anything with it.
I use the nit comb of course, I use that several times a week on the Proles because I cannot fathom the life cycle of the Head Louse.

Prole2 seems fine, I found evidence of them once and they all fell out in a rather half hearted manner after the most cursory of combings.
Prole1 would be alive with them if I was not constantly vigilant. What is going on? Wet combing, dry combing, lotions potions and all manner of foul smelling stuff. I wash his clothes and boil wash his bedclothes. They love him.
I wouldn’t want to live on him, I tell you that for nothing.

Anyhow, they both seem to be clear at the moment but it was raining out and Prole2’s hair was getting frisky so he got brushed.

I am relatively lucky that they don’t complain when this happens.
They never really have, we have had some re-negotiation of brushing firmness and my approach to tangles but relatively speaking they are very tolerant.

We have lots of hairbrushes. Loz’s attitude to the hair brush question was to keep buying them whenever they got lost. Eventually all the crazy places you leave hair brushes in got filled up until we reached saturation point.
On the dresser, hairbrush. In the bedside table, hairbrush. On the bedside table, hairbrush. In the change bag, hairbrush. In the glove compartment, hairbrush. In that drawer of things you don’t know what to do with but have collected together just in case you need them and now it won’t shut, hairbrush.
Essentially if you stretched your arm out to a flat surface you stood a good chance of getting one.
Part of the slow re-ordering of the house which has been going on for the last four and a half years is the slow thinning out of hairbrushes from the house.
For the most part I keep my hair short, Prole1 seems mildly less inhabitable to the insect population with short hair and for many years Prole2 was bald.
He was one of those young children with a big bald head.
He did not really start growing hair until he was three and even then it was gossamer thin as if the fairies had been in the night.

When he got a bit older his curls really started coming through.
They are really responsive to the weather.
On a dry day he has a sort of sub-Charlie’s Angels flick and on a wet day he has a sort of bad Eighties perm.
It’s the sort of hair that makes little old ladies say “OOooh, look at his curls, you can’t cut them off.”
The thing is, if you don’t he looks like a girl. I don’t mind that so much but on the mean streets of Redruth sometimes it is good to be gender specific.

Usually there is something satisfying about pulling out old hair from a hair brush and leaving it clear and ready to go.
I have wondered about saving all the balls of hair from the hairbrushes and making some sort of felt piece for the Proles’ respective wedding presents but I don’t think they would appreciate it.
Also I think if someone is daft enough to take the Proles off my hands the last thing I want to do is scare them off. Perhaps prospective fathers in law making effigies out of your intended spouse’s hair would tick that box.
You never can tell with people.
I also don’t know if human hair would last that long.
Does it get eaten by moths?
Prole1’s probably would.
Anyway it’s too late for the felt making.

It was a small silver sparkly hair brush that Loz kept in the change bag.
Part of the process of losing someone is the slow eradication of their marks on this world.
The cup they drank from gets washed up. The car seat gets moved. The clothes leave the wardrobe.
This process of life gently but firmly washing you away takes place no matter what we do.
I did not go out to clear away memories of Loz and nor did I try to hang on to a world that had less and less meaning because it was so obviously was missing her.

But a hair brush is a hair brush and if you are not going to remove the dead hair from it then ultimately is ceases to be useful.
Loz had long, long curly hair that hung in lazy loops on a dry day and tight spirals when it was humid.
Strands of her hair were to be found everywhere in the house, in the plug holes in the bathroom, on the back of the sofa, on the car seat, and snagged in corners.

I had to tease out a mixture of her long dark hair and Prole2’s short sandy coloured curls.
I teased it out with the handle of a comb, pulled it away from the brush and rolled it into a ball.
A perfect mix of her and him.

What to do with that?
Just put it in the bin?
Fold it away in an envelope and add it to the 25 document boxes of memories in the loft?

I don’t know anymore.

I put it out in the garden, tucked between the camomile.

I got rained on.

Then I brushed Prole2’s hair while he talked about Sin Cara and Jango Fett.