I remember the first time I combed out Mark's mane without having to get a bucket to stand on to reach the part near his head. His hair was fine and wispy, and it tangled if you so much as looked away from it for a moment. He hated to have it combed, but without the combing it braided itself into wild ridiculous patterns as though a child had tried to tie it in knots. I could always comb the part near his withers, but Mark would bob his head up and down to try to keep the rest of it out of my reach. He always succeeded, because I was only about eight years old, maybe nine, and I was not tall.
But this time I was gentle combing out the tangles. Instead of trying to pull the comb through as quickly as I could (thinking that the sooner it was finished, the better), I went very slowly as though I were combing my own hair. It had just occurred to me that if it hurt my head to yank the brush through a tangle, it might hurt Mark too. So I carefully picked out the knots, working my way up his neck toward his head. And slowly, Mark let his head down. I combed all of his mane, and all of his forelock. It was still dusty and yellow from the dirt, and the hairs that had been twisted tight together lay crooked and kinked in odd directions. But it was not tangled anymore. Mark sighed a big sigh, and I hugged his head.
No comments:
Post a Comment