Living with three daughters with super curly hair has been a learning experience. We’ve experimented with different brushes, conditioners, and products. I’ve learned that you only brush and untangle when wet. Bath night can become an arm workout by the time I work my way through three heads of very long hair. We have experienced our share of tears, depending on the stage of tiredness and knots. But, for the most part, we have it down to a science. Wash, brush, braid, repeat. It’s part of our routine.

This summer, after a much-needed trim from my sister, Wren discovered that her curls were more manageable, and she started brushing her own hair. She would still come to me for a braid. One less head for me to brush. Eventually, she discovered she could also braid her hair; before I even realized it, I was no longer part of her hair routine.

I wasn’t complaining. I still had two other heads to tend to.

Yesterday, Wren came to me before her shower. “Mom, can you brush my hair today? I have a little knot in the back that I can’t get out.”

“Sure,” I agreed absentmindedly.

Later, amid my usual Sunday morning frenzy of prepping lunches for the week ahead, Wren appeared squeaky clean, holding the brush out to me.

I stopped what I was doing and took the brush, using my hand to silently turn her around to get to work on her hair.

I was not expecting what would happen next. I put the brush to her head and attempted to pull it through, but I was met with a lot of resistance. I placed my hands in her wet curls to better assess the situation. I was overwhelmed by the clump of matted hair I felt right in the center of her hair.

“How long has this been like this, Wren?” I asked, hearing the panic in my voice. “You didn’t notice this sooner?”

I began working the brush through any of her hair I could get it through. I avoided the giant clump, unsure of what I could do to get through that.

I worked and worked for close to an hour and felt like I was making very little progress. Wren was in tears by that point, and if I wasn’t so busy brushing, I would have cried myself.

At one point, I snapped a picture and sent it to my sister. “I need help,” I typed, wishing she was closer.

“Use a lot of conditioner and a wide toothcomb,” she typed back. “Work from the bottom. Go slow,” she instructed.

I gathered additional tools and got back to work.

“Are you almost done?” Wren asked close to the two hour mark, sitting at the kitchen island among the now abandoned meal prep.

“Not yet,” I replied, seeing no end in sight.

A welcomed distraction came when Arnauld’s mom, Marie, stopped by to bring her Sunday offering of homemade soup. I explained the situation to her as she set the soup on the stove. “Maybe you can help?” I said, trying not to sound too desperate. My patience was growing thin.

Without hesitation, she took the brush from me and set to work as Wren’s tears continued to flow-a combination of discomfort and ten-year-old drama. As she worked, I continued working in the kitchen. Stopping when Wren’s sobs were overwhelming, I’d let Wren wrap her arms around me and squeeze rather than scream. During one of these moments, Marie’s eyes met mine, never stopping- steadily picking away at Wren’s hair. As we stood around Wren, I told her how grateful I was for her patience and work to help. She gave me a look that said there was nowhere else she needed to be…that she was happy to help. Her eyes then returned to the task at hand. “When we’re done,” she half laughed, her Haitian accent strong, “we write a book.”

I laughed, tucking her words into my brain. I knew that she was right, this would be something to write about.

Around hour three, we pulled out the scissors and made a few careful cuts, followed by more combing and brushing. An impossible task, nearly in the rearview.

Needless to say, I think we all learned a few lessons that day…mainly- you’re never too old to need a little help from others.