I used to own the most beautiful, handcrafted, boar bristle brush. I haven’t much use for hairbrushes these days, my pixie cut requiring no more than some swishing with the fingers, but all through my childhood and into my teens my long, red locks were my crowning glory. Worth even the pain of having the tangles mercilessly ripped out by my mom after each bath — like knife stabs on my tender scalp. The brush never yanked and ripped like that — only the evil comb. I’d cry and cry, and yet it never occurred to either of us that snarls could be removed in any other manner, teased out [gently] instead of torn.
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PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!
