That specific detail haunted my thoughts.
Why must a nine-year-old organize so much of her daily routine around her hair?
I never posed the question directly to Goldie’s father.
For quite some time, none of us did.
That dynamic shifted during the winter concert.
On that particular afternoon, families crowded tightly into the corridor outside the auditorium doors, waiting for entry.
Goldie’s father had secured his customary post beside the window.
Goldie occupied a chair while he worked.
Wearing her costume already, a silver ribbon rested across his knee.
He parted her hair into sections, his fingers moving swiftly and deliberately.
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