i cut my mother's hair

Your mother has had the same hairdresser for thirty years, and the winter she could not get to him it fell to you, a towel around her shoulders in her kitchen, her directing every snip in the hand mirror like a site foreman. Your hands shook for the first ten minutes. Her whole life she has been the one standing behind you.

You did a barely acceptable job, and she told the neighbours a professional had come to the house. You did it twice more that winter, and you have never been trusted with anything you were more afraid to drop.