“Time to wet your hair again?” – her voice, her presence like tinkling wind chimes, as she nods toward her chair, her yellow smock set off by daisies. Deft hands tuck a blue towel around my neck, lower the back of my chair to the lip of the sink, turn on the water, and rinse my hair, slowly, lovingly. She hums. All is well. Then she shuts off the water, and upright again, towel-dries my hair, and places a fresh one around my shoulders.

The prep for my haircut complete, she says, “There you are! Until the next time!”

And there were many next times embracing a career change, a marriage, a divorce, retirement, self-publication of my memoir, Elizabeth. Yes, for thirty years she has been serving me in ways she cannot imagine.

Her name is Louise.

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