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When my mother was young, she had beautiful black hair, which she tied into a long braid that hung down to her waist, making many older women envious. After washing her hair, it fell on her back like a black waterfall. After cutting it short, she gave it a fashionable perm, which attracted a lot of attention. The comb stopped due to resistance, bringing my thoughts back to reality. It turned out that a few strands of hair were tangled together. I smoothed my hair gently and combed it a few times. The hair tangled around the comb teeth flashed across my pupils like silver lightning in the sunlight. At that moment, I truly saw how old my mother was.

Today, my mother's hair is dry, sparse and dull, but it does not affect her beauty in my heart at all. Although wrinkles have climbed up her forehead, her body is no longer upright, and her skin is no longer tight and fair, her smile has not changed, and is still so kind and warm. I seem to have found the love that flowed in the comb of my childhood.

At that time, my mother would always change my hairstyle every day: pigtails, short hair, student hair, ponytails, bows, red hairpins, and colorful hair flowers that decorated my colorful childhood. Whenever I think of every time my mother washed my hair when I was a child, I feel an indescribable happiness. My mother picked me up, held my head in the basin, and rubbed my hair with her fingers. I smiled and twisted my body, and the splashing water fell on my mother and on the ground. I sat on a small stool while my mother sat on the edge of the bed. The comb slid across my head. Her truest love flowed between her fingers and in the comb, and was fixed deep in my memory.