Chapter 4 - Sunshine Head
Leo hated anyone else touching his hair.
But Rosie could.
At bedtime, she would hold one curl while Mark read stories.
At hospital visits, he would sit beside her with his head bent low so she could touch the curls when nurses came in.
When she was scared before procedures, she asked for “Leo’s sunshine.”
Then, two months ago, after a hard week when Rosie asked if her hair would ever come back, Leo made a promise on video.
Mark had recorded it because Rosie loved watching videos of herself.
Leo sat beside her on the rug, holding her hand.
He looked at the camera and said, in his tiny serious voice:
“I’m keeping my curls until Rosie’s hair comes back. Then she gets the first one.”
Rosie clapped.
Mark laughed behind the phone and said, “That’s a big promise, buddy.”
Leo nodded.
“I can do big.”
He had done big.
Through comments.
Through playground teasing.
Through Brenda’s sighs.
Through strangers calling him pretty.
Through one barber visit we left after Leo cried in the parking lot and said, “Not yet. Rosie needs them.”
We told him his body was his.
His hair was his.
His promise was his.
We told Brenda.
More than once.
She called it indulgent.
She called it confusing.
She called it “letting a child run the family.”
But never did I imagine she would pick him up from preschool without permission, drive him somewhere, and let scissors decide what love had been holding together.
Mark held the phone toward her.
On screen, Rosie smiled beside Leo, one little hand tangled in his curls.
Brenda’s face tightened.
“She’s too young to understand hair.”
Leo whispered from my arms, “She understands mine.”
That sentence struck harder than anything any adult had said.
Brenda looked away.
Not in shame.
In irritation at being cornered by a child’s clarity.
Mark lowered the phone.
“Where did you take him?”
She folded her arms.
“To a proper salon.”
Amy’s voice returned to me only as ice.
“Did he cry?”
Brenda’s eyes flicked toward me.
“He fussed.”
“Did he tell you no?”
She did not answer.
Mark took one step closer.
“Did my son tell you no?”
Brenda’s nostrils flared.
“He is a child. Children say no to vegetables.”
May you like
Mark’s jaw tightened.
“Hair is not broccoli.”
