ABSTRACT
He held the mass of hair—long, coarse, iron-grey—over his left hand, and brushed it firmly and vigorously with his right. It was greasy to the touch, despite the effort he and Mrs. Bright had put into washing it. He used an old-fashioned brush, with black bristles in a soft, coral-coloured rubber pad, in a lacquered black frame. He brushed and brushed. Mrs. Bright’s black face smiled approval. Mrs. Bright would have liked him to call her Deanna, which was her name, but he could not. It would have showed a lack of respect, and he respected and needed Mrs. Bright. And the name had inappropriate associations, nothing to do with a massively overweight Jamaican home help. He separated the hair deftly into three strips. Mrs. Bright remarked, as she frequently remarked, that it was very strong hair, it must have been lovely when Mado was young. “Maddy Mad Mado,” said the person in the wing-chair in a kind of growl. She was staring at the television screen, which was dead and grey and sprinkled with dust particles. Her face was dimly reflected in it, a heavy grey face with an angry mouth and dark eyecaverns. James began to plait the hair, pulling it tightly into a long serpent. He said, as he often said, that hairs thickened with age, they got stronger. Hairs in the nostrils, hairs on the heavy chin, grasses on a rock-face.
