I am sitting with strands of my black hair clinging to my fingers. They are tangled in balls

I remember brushing the hair of a foster kid at my friends house. I saw her mop of hair. Tangled. Gum on some strands.

I took the scissors that sat on my lap and began to cut the clumps of hair. In each strand a white worm wiggled from the incision. They flailed helplessly on my skin before sinking back into my pores

“Why don’t you brush your own hair?” I asked.

She replied: “I don’t know how to.”

I scraped the section of skin the worms crawled into, leaving tracks of red lines where my fingers touched. I grabbed the scissors and began to cut. “Get out. Get out. Get out.”

I brushed her hair roughly. My hands were shaking. They always shake. I was a child trying desperately to brush the hair of a younger child.