Fuller Brush: A Hundred Strokes of the Hairbrush
Sarah, Sarah’s mother Millie and Sarah’s grandmother Agnes all sat at the dining table, eating their evening meal.
“One hundred strokes with the hairbrush each day and you’ll end up with beautiful, lustrous hair,” Sarah’s grandmother stated absently as she chewed her food. Sarah and Sarah’s mother turned to look at her and they both laughed.
“Granny’s the Fuller Brush spokeswoman. Aren’t you granny?” Sarah prompted the old woman, but her grandmother’s eyes glazed over again as they had been only a moment before. Sarah’s mother Millie waited a few moments longer for her elderly mother’s response. Rather than further articulating herself, she instead stared vacantly into space, returning to her former silence as she continued to chew her food.
“You shouldn’t mock her senility, Sarah,” Sarah’s mother admonished quietly to her daughter. “She should be allowed to express herself without fear of ridicule.”
“What was she saying about those hairbrush strokes, anyway?” Sarah asked. “A hundred hairbrush strokes?”
“Oh, it’s an old custom,” Sarah’s mother replied. “They used to say when Mom was growing up that if you brushed your hair with one hundred strokes from the hairbrush, your hair would remain healthy.”
“Sounds like a Fuller Brush marketing ploy. A motto made up by some advertising executive,” Sarah retorted.
“You’re a cynical girl, Sarah,” Millie pointed out.
“Well, what do you expect? It’s a cynical world, Mom. I mean, come on. If you do one hundred and five strokes, will you still have the same lustrous hair? Or what if you’re one or two hairbrush strokes short?” Sarah began to eat again.
“It’s not a magic trick, honey. It’s just a simple home truth,” Millie said.
“It sounds like somebody with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder would do. It’s not a simple home truth. It’s a load of bull.”
There was silence then for a moment, with the exception of the ticking of the clock that Agnes had taken with her from her own house. It was the only thing she had brought with her after moving in with Millie and Sarah when she became too unwell to live on her own.
“There is more truth in a home truth than you’ll find in real life,” Agnes uttered finally. Her hand was trembling.
“That’s right, Mom,” Millie agreed. She leaned forward to encourage her mother, reached out and took the trembling hand and held it in her own.
“The Fuller Brush agent told me that, a long time ago now,” the old woman continued. “A hundred strokes from the hairbrush and you’ll have strong and healthy hair.”
“One hundred strokes with the hairbrush each day and you’ll end up with beautiful, lustrous hair,” Sarah’s grandmother stated absently as she chewed her food. Sarah and Sarah’s mother turned to look at her and they both laughed.
“Granny’s the Fuller Brush spokeswoman. Aren’t you granny?” Sarah prompted the old woman, but her grandmother’s eyes glazed over again as they had been only a moment before. Sarah’s mother Millie waited a few moments longer for her elderly mother’s response. Rather than further articulating herself, she instead stared vacantly into space, returning to her former silence as she continued to chew her food.
“You shouldn’t mock her senility, Sarah,” Sarah’s mother admonished quietly to her daughter. “She should be allowed to express herself without fear of ridicule.”
“What was she saying about those hairbrush strokes, anyway?” Sarah asked. “A hundred hairbrush strokes?”
“Oh, it’s an old custom,” Sarah’s mother replied. “They used to say when Mom was growing up that if you brushed your hair with one hundred strokes from the hairbrush, your hair would remain healthy.”
“Sounds like a Fuller Brush marketing ploy. A motto made up by some advertising executive,” Sarah retorted.
“You’re a cynical girl, Sarah,” Millie pointed out.
“Well, what do you expect? It’s a cynical world, Mom. I mean, come on. If you do one hundred and five strokes, will you still have the same lustrous hair? Or what if you’re one or two hairbrush strokes short?” Sarah began to eat again.
“It’s not a magic trick, honey. It’s just a simple home truth,” Millie said.
“It sounds like somebody with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder would do. It’s not a simple home truth. It’s a load of bull.”
There was silence then for a moment, with the exception of the ticking of the clock that Agnes had taken with her from her own house. It was the only thing she had brought with her after moving in with Millie and Sarah when she became too unwell to live on her own.
“There is more truth in a home truth than you’ll find in real life,” Agnes uttered finally. Her hand was trembling.
“That’s right, Mom,” Millie agreed. She leaned forward to encourage her mother, reached out and took the trembling hand and held it in her own.
“The Fuller Brush agent told me that, a long time ago now,” the old woman continued. “A hundred strokes from the hairbrush and you’ll have strong and healthy hair.”
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