After my bath as a child, 
my dad brushed out my hair. 
Only my dad, never my mom. 
We sat in the living room, 
Dad in his recliner
with me on his lap,
while we watched our evening shows. 
I could feel the buttons on his shirt
pressed into my back when I leaned against him. 
He patiently took care of the knots
in my waist length hair
while I whined and complained
about my tender head. 
When I was eight, 
my hair was cut. 
Maybe my decision, maybe not, 
but I lost something
when I had to start brushing my own hair.