epworth eastern

"Your hair looks good, Nance," says Nan, not quite sure. Nance's hair is cut short. a tube spools out from under her nightie, draining light-red liquid from her lung into a machine gurgling at her feet. She's lost so much weight she looks ten years old. like a tomboy.

"You think? Jim hates it. I went down the Mall before I came to hospital, and I said no more perms. i can't be bothered," says Nance. she's tugging at her admission bracelet. Jim shifts uncomfortably in his seat, hand on walking stick. He does hate it, you can tell, but finally Nance won't hear it. I wanna punch the air say yeah.

I can feel Nan, my mum's mum, getting self conscious, needing to justify a commitment to her own fragile inch-thick fro. my grandmothers have both gone to the hairdresser at the Mall in West Heide for half a century.

"I have to perm mine," says Nan finally. "I've got a big bald spot at the back." she giggles. shy. I've heard it before: it's one of those statements that lock the Arnold women into their routines. like when a waitress puts a big plate of food in front of my mum. i can't eat all that she always says, shifting her gaze from me to the waitress to the food like she's unsure who needs to hear it most.

it makes me eat all mine, and then some. just to test my genetics.