Mom's hair clip

In my memory, my mother's image is always associated with her long, thick, jet-black hair. Every morning, before going out, she would skillfully tie her hair up neatly with a shiny aluminum clip. It wasn't expensive jewelry, nor did it sparkle like the accessories displayed in luxury stores, but to me, it was incredibly special.

Illustration: HOANG DANG

Perhaps it was because that hair clip had been with my mother since I was a baby. Every day, I would sit on a small chair, quietly watching my mother stand in front of the mirror, watching her skillful hands place the clip into her bun. Every morning, when the gentle sunlight streamed through the window, the clip was still there, patiently lying on the table, waiting for that familiar hand to take it again. And every evening, when my mother took the clip off, strands of hair fell with each soft breath. And the next morning, it would join my mother in starting a new day, silently witnessing the unspoken joys and hardships.

Every afternoon, I would often go to the garden with my mother, gently picking the small, delicate white chrysanthemums and carefully placing them in an old bamboo basket. My mother would bring the flowers inside, spread them evenly on a bamboo tray to dry in the sun, and wait until the petals were crisp before storing them in a ceramic jar. My mother would then brew those chrysanthemums into fragrant tea, so that each morning, the aroma of the tea would permeate every peaceful moment of our family.

The afternoon breeze blew, rustling the delicate flower branches and gently ruffling my mother's hair in the fading sunlight. I gazed at her hair, slightly disheveled by the gentle breeze and the busyness of her work in the small garden. Under the setting sun, the old aluminum hairpin gleamed with a warm golden hue, evoking sweet memories of my mother, peaceful afternoons, her soft hair scented with chrysanthemums, and a hairpin that never seemed old in my memory.

Time passed, and my mother's hair gradually turned gray. That aluminum hair clip was old, with a few scratches, but she still used it as a close friend. I once asked her why she didn't buy a new one. She smiled and said, "Why replace it when it's still good?" The day my grandfather gave her that hair clip, the sky was clear, and a gentle breeze swept across the porch, carrying the faint scent of grapefruit blossoms.

“This hair clip, it will help you stay neat and strong, just like your mother used to be,” he gently instructed, then slowly recounted the story of his grandmother, once one of the most beautiful women in the village, with long, silky black hair like a flowing stream. Back then, every time she styled her hair up, everyone in the market would admire her. His mother never imagined that would be the last time she would see him healthy. Just a few days later, the sky turned gray, signaling an impending storm. On the familiar road, as he was returning home, a car lost control and sped towards him. Everything happened so fast. The screeching brakes, the panicked glances… then everything fell silent.

Perhaps that's why my mother treasured the hair clip, like a thread connecting her affection for him, a memento of her beloved father. Every time I see that clip, I see my grandfather's image reflected in my mother's gentle eyes. My mother said that every time she pressed it against her cheek, it was as if she were touching his hand, hearing his comforting words as he used to tie her hair when she was little. The clip reminded her that he was always there, watching over and protecting her, even when she thought she had forgotten everything.

As the hair clip gradually broke, my mother meticulously repaired it, as if clinging to a piece of her memory. I once saw her carefully tighten the tiny spring, use a little glue to mend the crack, so patiently that I wondered why she insisted on keeping such an old hair clip. Then, one day, the clip was truly beyond repair. She cleaned it with a soft cloth, gently touching each worn line, as if caressing a cherished memory. I silently watched as she opened the old wooden chest, where she kept the most important mementos of her life.

Besides my grandfather's hair clip, the chest also contained a worn-out silk scarf – a wedding gift from my grandmother when my mother got married, a yellowed handwritten letter from my father to my mother during their separation, and the old cloth doll that my mother used to sew for me when I was a child.

Each item carries its own memory, like pieces of a life's puzzle. As she closed the chest, her hand gently traced the weathered surface of the wood, then she smiled—a sad but peaceful smile. It was as if, in this way, she had perfectly preserved all the most precious things the chestpin held: her youth, her loving years, and the image of her father whom she always cherished in her heart.

Source: https://baodanang.vn/channel/5433/202503/chiec-kep-toc-cua-me-4002888/