Deidre

Hairdresser Deidre sometimes used to massage me and my mum, and my feet couldn’t reach the floor from her bar-stool chair. She built a tower of bedside pillows high enough for me to kick it over. All of the pillows came in colours, so I’d say, ‘Everything is colourful now!’

My mum got her hair all done up in a machine, and when she did I hopped off my seat to play with the colours. Deidre danced with me, and she slid her feet over beige tiles and blew the hairdryer in my face. I picked old women’s hair out my teeth for days. When mum and I went home, I coughed and yelled and asked for yellow and pink pillows.

Deidre is an older person, like old, old. Maybe in her 80s or 90s, I don’t know. These days when she touches me, it’s weaker, and she’s lost her wedding ring. She’s been with Ben since I knew her, and she was older than him. Maybe like ten years, like much older. She lost her son in a car accident, and now she’s by herself. I don’t ask her about Ben.

I saw her in a loose flowery dress on Christmas Day, when I was out for a walk and she was looking at the Christmas lights with smiling eyes. When she saw me in my reindeers, she didn’t know who I was, but I told her about the pillows and she pulled her little hands together.