Her father looked down.
Goldie continued. “She and Dad decided I would grow it.”
“Goldie,” he said quietly. “We don’t have to do this here.”
“I want to tell them.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
Goldie told us that before her mother died, her parents had made a plan.
Goldie would grow her hair until she was 17.
Then she would cut it and donate it to an organization that helped make wigs for children who lost their hair during cancer treatment.
“It was supposed to be for kids like Mom,” Goldie said.
Her father corrected her gently.
“For kids going through what Mom went through.”
Goldie nodded.
The explanation should have made everything simple.
It didn’t. If anything, it made the question harder.
Because Goldie was nine. Seventeen was eight years away.
I looked at the braid hanging down the front of her costume.
She noticed.
“I still want to donate it,” she said quickly.
Her father looked up.
“I do.”
“I know you do.”
“But I don’t want it this long anymore.”
Goldie’s father looked surprised.
She twisted the end of the braid around her wrist.
“It’s heavy, and it gets stuck.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“You always say we’ll fix it.”
He nodded.
“And you do fix it. You braid it tighter or pin it up. But then it’s still heavy.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words.
Goldie stared at the floor.
The adults around us became very still.
Her father said, “I’m sorry, Goldie.”
He closed his eyes.
Goldie’s voice shook.
“I don’t want you to think I don’t love Mom.”
Her father stood so fast the bench scraped behind him. “Never.”
She looked frightened.
He softened immediately.
“Goldie, I would never think that.”
“But if I cut it.”
He bent down again. “No. Listen to me. Your hair is not proof of how much you love your mother.”
Goldie’s eyes filled. “Then why can’t I cut it?”
Nobody in that corridor moved.
Her father stared at her.
I thought he’d had an answer ready.
