“He’s watching,” she whispers.
“Good. He needs to learn this, too.” Commitment is key. “Okay. Hand squeeze first. One, two, three.”
I take her small hand in mine and squeeze gently with each count.
“Now breathe. Smell the cocoa. Blow the steam.”
She inhales. Shaky but trying. Then exhales.
“Again. Smell. Blow.”
This time it’s smoother.
“One more. Smell. Blow.”
Her shoulders drop. Not all the way. But enough.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I guess.”
I start with the spray bottle. Light mist. Nothing aggressive. The water catches in her curls and suddenly I can see what they’re supposed to look like. Tight spirals. Gorgeous. Exactly like the photos I’ve seen of Isotta around the house.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about the dead wife whose hair you’re trying to replicate.
Too late.
Already thinking about it.
I focus on the task.
“This is a wide-tooth comb,” I tell her, showing her the tool. “We don’t brush curls. We comb them. Gently. Starting at the bottom.”
“Why?”
“Because curls are delicate. Like Frederick’s shell. We have to be careful or they break.”
She nods solemnly. “Frederick’s shell is very delicate.”
“Exactly.”
I section her hair. Start at the ends. Work my way up slowly. Every time I hit a tangle, I pause.
“Wait,” Ben says. “I’ve dropped him a few times. How come his shell doesn’t break?”
“Because he loves you too much,” I reply. “Okay, squeeze time. Are you ready?”
She reaches for my hand. We do the one-two-three. Breathe together. Then I continue.
It takes forever. My knees are screaming from kneeling on the tile. My back is starting to protest. But I’m not rushing this. Can’t rush this.
When the combing is done, I grab the curl cream. I pump a pea-sized amount into my palm.
“Watch,” I tell Ben. “We warm it in our hands first. Rub rub rub.”
She giggles. “That sounds funny.”
“It does. Very scientific.” I show her my palms. “See? Now we scrunch. Not pull. Never pull. Just scrunch the curls up like we’re making little springs.”
