As a young child my mother grew my hair long. And I remember her as being the one who cared for it. When the realization of her death came upon me I wouldn't allow anyone to touch my hair. It was my mom's job to take care of it and I wanted her to do it. After a few days my sister took control, washed my hair, and began to brush out all the knots of a 4 year old's hair had that was so long it hit my waist. I cried as she brushed it. And after wards my dad took me and I got it cut off. It was so short that I remember being told I had boy hair in day care and I was so angry. It hurt me and I often wished my mom was there to take care of my long locks. Today I keep my hair long just because it reminds me of when I was a kid and that horrible memory. And maybe in some ways in reminds me of my childhood with my mom.