I asked her why she won't wear a more comfortable pair of shorts or, more specifically, a purple athletic style skirt Carly picked up for her and that she wore the entirety of one summer. She says she's cold. Plus, she's only ever worn jeans.
Nearly a year went by that I didn't see Mom's hair. I never saw her bald. Instead, there was an ever constant little tuck of hair peeking out at the nape of her neck. Now, her hair is a bountiful silver grey. Hair so soft to the touch with a hint of stiffness where the spray can works it's magic.
Unfortunately she doesn't have anyone to cut her hair. A nail technician provided a much needed at home pedicure and manicure, but the hair stylist continues to elude us.
Given the book of services provided by hospice, I would think at home beauty care would be included. Dying is ugly and debilitating enough on its own. Unable to recognize the person she is becoming, it's no wonder the exhaustion brought on fussing over her hair is worth it.
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