Brushed Away: The Silent Witness

Everyone thinks I’m just combing. Stroke after stroke. Soft, then taut. But I feel everything when touching the hair. The skin of the head, the thickness of each strand, the line where the hair parts, the difference between dyed and undyed hair, straight or curly, tidy or messy. The smell of shampoo is the first thing that spreads through my teeth—accompanied by the warm steam as soon as the towel is opened. After the shampoo, warmth briefly settles along the strands. At first, warmth stays. Later, it leaves too soon.

If the hair is wet and the strands cling to one another, I pass through slowly. My teeth tug, aware of the weight. Sometimes I get stuck in entangled ones, especially in the end. Sometimes, though the hair is dry, some strands remain wet preventing me from gliding through those areas.

But if it is completely dry, the strands slip. I glide without pause, the hand follows, unaware of my ease. While gliding through the strands, the sunshine follows me along the hair. The hand moves in its habitual pace, unaware that I mark each second.

The movement repeats. Day after day. There is no thought in it at first. Only repetition. From right to left. Or from left to right. But always from up to down. It seems simple. But it is not… It is directly part of someone’s life.

She always took me twice a day. On fast mornings and slow evenings. In the mornings, I was rushing, barely pausing. I was in a hurry, barely feeling the tangles. Sometimes, without feeling the skin skimming the surface. As soon as she finished, I hid in the chest.

After a long, tiring day, I was remembered again. I was being glided slowly by her thin and strong fingers. The hair, human as it is, was bending and folding according to her mood, weight of thought and fatigue. Some days, it slid like it wanted to escape; other days, it clung, demanding attention. I was only aware of the rhythm, the pauses, the subtle changes no one else saw. I do not count days. I notice differences. Nothing changes at once. It happens in increments.

Over time, my appearance under light was getting less. Firstly, on some evenings I was forgotten in the chest. Day by day, it became a habit. I was just combing in the mornings. The rhythm of her hand also changed. Rushing hands gave way to a slower rhythm. And even the smell of her hair changed. Like a hospital… Hard… Acrid… Yeah. I found it. The smell of medicine…

The mirror waits. It used to meet every movement. It used to catch the light. It used to know us. Now, I glide past unnoticed.

Even the colour began changing. Every time I brushed, the brown hair that had shone in the sunlight was gradually starting to lose its luster. The strands no longer behave the way they used to. They offer less resistance now. They yield too easily, collapsing under my teeth instead of flowing.

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One day, I noticed some strands on me after brushing. As time went by, they increased. On the contrary, the volume of her hair was decreasing. I was gliding in the blink of an eye despite her weakened hands. Before, she held me only in her right hand. Then I began to shift between both. Her grip grew uncertain.

I slip.

When I fell to the floor, sometimes I was picked up the next day. At that moment, the strands were cleaned from my teeth.

As days passed, I began to spend more time in the chest. With the absorbed smell of the medicine and the growing number of strands, I was drowned as if. Before, the neighbours of mine in the chest were hair sprays, hair cream or hair clips, but now all of them have been substituted by medicine. Before, the inside of the chest was tidy, and everything had its place. Even I had a special box. After putting me inside it, the box was placed on the right corner of the chest. But now, untidy, messy, complicated. Sometimes I lost myself among that messiness. I saw my box. But full of painkillers.

Her time spent in front of the mirror decreased as well. The woman who spent her beautiful moments in front of the mirror under her husband's kisses in candlelight every night, began to watch herself alone. In the darkness. Without disturbing anyone. Rarely, after her husband was asleep, she got up from her bed and approached the mirror. With swollen eyes, messy hair. At that time, I was the only one who was her close friend. Before, I moved through her hair from her delicate hands to her husband’s stronger ones, as if dancing along those bright strands. But now, I was dragged through faded hair. This time, I felt the skin more closely. And when she touched me, they were the same hands. But not the same…

I was left for a long time. Time settles differently in the chest. I measure it by silence. Nothing moves except the smell.

After that, I was remembered and taken from the chest again. I was very glad first of all. But then… I slipped only along the surface of her skin… By her very weak hands again… It was my last touch…

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Epilogue

I was collected from the chest after about a month. Along with half-empty medicine boxes. Light reached me again, thin and unfamiliar. The air felt different, lighter, as if it no longer expected me to move. But by another hand. Soft and small and a bit wet as if she had just wiped her tears. I remembered those hands immediately. These were the hands that had chosen me in the store, turning me over, testing my teeth, deciding. Then she gave me to her as a present, unaware of how much I would be used. Every strand carries a memory.