It was routine almost, something we went through at least twice a week, and I should have felt relaxed and comfortable in front of my junior-size vanity table as the brush made a few preparatory glides. She looked relaxed enough. Brushing my hair was a job that Bernadette must have really enjoyed, always cheerful, always working with gentle patience, no matter how many snarls and tangles I had. And she did it often too, her own idea – the full treatment, not just a quick once-over to get me ready for school in the morning. As if I were a grown-up young lady. But that was how she usually acted toward me anyway, never bossy or mean, never taking advantage of her position. As if she knew I was advanced for my age. So even though it could get pretty tiresome just sitting still like that, I seldom raised any objections whenever Bernadette suggested it might be time for my hundred strokes of the hairbrush. Like now. For that matter, only moments ago I had even thought of suggesting it myself. Strictly routine. So why couldn't I calm down and relax? Couldn't I even keep my mouth shut?

"Hey, you're not counting!"

"You noticed that, eh? Don't worry, Missy, I've got my eye on the clock. I'm timing it. Unless you'd rather count the strokes yourself?"

"No, thanks. I think a hundred is too much, anyhow. Doesn't your arm get tired? I mean, for ugly hair like mine…"

"Hush now, your hair is pretty."

"Bernadette, it's so red. Not even a nice red."

"It's a very nice red. And it'll be even nicer in a couple of years. You'll see. Hair like yours gets a shade darker after a while, a real auburn color, you know? Beautiful. It's enough to make me jealous. Mine is like dirty old straw."