Doing my mother's hair

I used to sit between her knees, getting my hair tugged into place. Now she sits for me. I section her blonde strands and work the color through, fingers moving slow and sure. Each stroke drags along her scalp. Her shoulders loosen. The dye starts to take, a deeper blonde glowing where it soaks in. She lets out a breath that barely counts as sound. My hands keep working. I keep watching the change.