Hair Salon + Personal Attention ASMR in Remembrance of My Mother’s Voice

Liz Kerin

NARRATIVE NONFICTION

Hey there, c’mon in. 

My name is Bailey, and I’ve been so looking forward to our appointment today. I’m glad you took time out of your incredibly busy, stressful day to unwind with me and let me give your beautiful hair the attention it deserves. 

I told you I wanted to grow my hair so long that I’d be able to sit on it by the end of the year.

You supported this endeavor, provided I’d let you take care of it. Every night before bed, you sat me down on the family room carpet with a bottle of lemon-scented detangler. My pillow always smelled like Country Time. You made sure to grip my hair a good three inches below the root as you worked each knot loose so I wouldn’t feel it. One time, the girl from next door was babysitting and you told her how to do it, but you forgot to tell her about holding the root. I screamed and begged her to stop, insisting my mom would just do it when she came home. I called the number on the Post-it by the phone (I think you were at that sushi place in town, which you knew was cool years before sushi was cool). I asked if you’d be mad if I waited for you to brush my hair because this lunatic was obviously trying to kill me.

Before we start, can I get you a cup of tea, or some sparkling water? Tea? Lovely. Let me grab our collection and show you what we have here. . . Let’s see. . . 

Bailey is good. Some of these ASMR girls focus too much on mouth sounds. There was this one woman who read Goodnight Moon and marked the end of each sentence by eating a grape. “And a comb and a brush and bowl full of mush.” Snap. “And a quiet old lady who was whispering hush.” Crunch. But Bailey keeps things simple. She has nice role plays. I like it when she does your makeup for a date, or recommends books at the library. When she says she’s here to pamper me after my long, hard day, I actually believe her.

We’ve got a peach chamomile, which is very relaxing. Your classic Earl Grey, which I love with honey and a splash of oat milk. Oh wait, but this one right here is my favorite: ginger green mango. Do you like ginger? I got this one while I was on my honeymoon in Japan. 

There’s a picture of you from the 80s, sitting on a stone wall under a cherry tree in Tokyo. You worked there for a few years, before I was born. You had bangs back then, and big, round owl glasses. You were younger than I am now. There’s actually a chance a bean-sized version of me is in this photo. A chance you might not even know it yet.

I’ve never seen any pictures of Bailey, even though I know she reposts all her content to TikTok. I don’t want to see her drumming the mic with opalescent talons, or the filter that gives her those thick, black doll lashes. All I need is her voice. Her timbre is like slicing into soft butter. A unique sort of tenderness that doesn’t infantilize. That’s hard to do, for some of these ASMRtists. They default to baby-voice without realizing it. Sex appeal on autopilot. Everyone has their “I am talking on the internet” voice. The same way you had your “I am talking while holding the camcorder” voice. But I’m glad you were always chatty back there, narrating every innocuous thing. Your slow, silvery drawl, like a midwestern David Attenborough. It’s all I have now.

I can tell you haven’t been sleeping well. You’ve got a lot on your mind, huh? That’s okay. Come sit down, get comfortable. Enjoy your tea. And if you fall asleep while I’m washing your hair, or during your scalp massage, I promise I’ll try my best not to wake you up. 

I was marked for insomnia the day I was born, even though all my therapists like to link it to post-traumatic stress. To the thing that happened to you. But I wore my anxiety like an itchy sweater all throughout my childhood.

Especially at night.

We realized it was a serious issue over Easter weekend when I was in the first grade. For two nights in a row, I didn’t sleep. You finally gave me some Benadryl on Sunday night and sat with me till I drifted off. You kept asking me why this happened. Why I’d stay up all night and watch the clock till I was nauseous with terror. Sometimes you’d find me retching on the bathroom floor. I couldn’t explain it. I just hated being the last person in the house to fall asleep. That’s when the dark starts to talk to you. When it’s quiet. When you’re all alone. 

An older kid at school had recently told me about black holes, adding a whole new, gruesome dimension to my habitual catastrophizing. Alone in the dark, I imagined the sun had burned out and sucked everyone I’d ever known into its infinite maw. For some horrifying reason, I alone had been spared this disastrous fate. But why me? Who was I to bear this broken world upon my shoulders? How would I survive? I couldn’t so much as use a can opener without an adult. Who would look after me if that black hole sun had its way with you? If your atoms broke apart and started spinning like balls in a lottery drum for all eternity? 

That’s usually when I’d start dry heaving and sprint to the bathroom. 

The only thing that made it better was if you sat by my bed and rambled about your day, or all the things you had planned for tomorrow. Sometimes you’d unspool anesthetizing, unremarkable childhood memories: the layout of your old house. What you wore as a Halloween costume every year till you stopped trick-or-treating. Within minutes, my eyelids would sag. I was safe in the knowledge that if I got lost in the dark, your voice would be my tether. 

Now, what are we thinking we want to do to your hair today? Are you looking for a big change or just a trim? Oh, a big change? That’s great! You know there’s nothing I love more than a glow-up. I’m so happy you trust me to help you ring in a new era.

By the time I turned nine, I could finally sit on my hair. On my tenth birthday, I decided I was ready to chop it all off. 

You took me to your hairdresser. Before then, I saw a local kids’ barber who gave out lollipops and had all his clients wear capes with Ninja Turtles on them. But this was the real deal. I was nervous. I started shaking and felt my throat close like a vise when the shears gouged my thick, red ponytail. But I wanted a cute little bob like Drew Barrymore, and I was determined to commit. When we were done, you met my gaze in the mirror, handed me my ponytail in a Ziploc bag, and told me you’d never seen me look so grown up. The hairdresser said something to the effect of, “Next thing ya know we’ll be scheduling her updo for prom,” and you laughed to loosen the cramp in your voice. 

At the time, I wanted what every ten-year-old wants. I wanted to be treated like an adult. Everyone’s in a hurry to prove their maturity—to grow tall enough to reach that secret, gilded box on the top shelf. But if you glimpse what’s inside before you’re ready, it’ll suck you in and never let you out. 

Like the furious gravity of a burnt-out star.

Now what I want you to do is lay back, close your eyes, and let all those stressful memories fall out of your head when I turn on the water. Ready? 

The headaches started coming after my tenth birthday. More frequently, and with increasing severity. You saw a doctor for migraines. A chiropractor. Even got a CT scan—which should have caught it early. We won a malpractice suit against the hospital the following year. I didn’t find out about it till I was in my 30s. By that time, I’d moved to California to try and construct something resembling self-reliance. I didn’t realize where so much of my relative privilege had come from, prior to that. 

People in LA are always talking about prep for the “Big One.” They’re talking about an earthquake, of course. But every time I hear someone drop the euphemism, I think about you. It. The silent wraith stalking your veins with tectonic patience till it was time to rear its head and rupture the whole fucking world. 

I wish I could give it a name. Craft the perfect villain. Blame him for what happened to you and seek my revenge when I grew up. But it was random. The universe tripped and stubbed its toe. A minor inconvenience, when you stop to consider all that dark matter and quantum mystery. That’s what people kept suggesting, as the years went by. Whenever my emotions went nuclear and made everyone uncomfortable. Consider how vast it all is. As if they knew what it felt like to dial 911 and say, “Hi. I think my mom is dead.” 

For your scalp massage today, I have either eucalyptus oil or lavender. Which would you prefer? Lavender? That’s my favorite, too. Are there any special spots you want me to focus on? Spots you’d like me to avoid?

They removed a piece of your skull and kept it in a refrigerator somewhere in Chicago. The brain swells a lot after surgery, and they wanted to make sure no further intervention was required before they snapped it back into place. When I was finally allowed to see you in the ICU, there was a dent in your scalp above your left temple, like someone had scooped the bone with a melon baller. 

I’d never seen someone get stapled back together before. I didn’t know they could do that: staple your flesh like a packet of homework assignments. My cousin needed stitches one summer when he cut his knee climbing a tree and I went with him and my aunt to the ER. I watched the doctor mend him with a needle and some surgical thread. This was different.

To this day, the scar is intrusive and thick like cold chewing gum, competing with your hair’s natural part. Everyone who came to our house that summer brought you a hat. They all figured it was the right thing to do when they glimpsed your bald, half-mended skull. Dignity was essential, even though we all knew what was underneath. It was the ’90s, so there were a lot of denim bucket hats in the mix. I think you liked them, but it was hard to tell. You could only smile with half your mouth, and when you spoke it was like trying to solve a crossword puzzle in the wrong language. Your voice was never the same, after that. You stammered and struggled with a high-pitched wheeze, fighting for each truncated vocalization. You had to learn to talk, all over again. Like an infant. I think that’s when people started treating you like a child. Which was hard for me to understand. Because I was the child. 

We all need someone to take care of us sometimes. It’s so nice, isn’t it? A lot of us don’t know how to ask. We think we’re not supposed to, y’know? But you’re never too old to want someone to take care of you. 

How are you liking the lavender? 

When people came with hats and fruit baskets, they also brought their platitudes. Greeting cards emblazoned with Bible verses and the serenity prayer written in glitter. “You’re so lucky she’s still here,” the midwestern moms would say. Kneading my shoulders, enveloping me in a cloud of Clinique Happy. “Thank God.” Yes, I’d reply. I’m lucky. She’s lucky. We’re all very lucky. 

The moms didn’t know what it was like, after they left. They never heard her scream bloody murder because she didn’t want anyone to help her in the shower. They didn’t know about the adult diapers and all the home health aides who quit and every time someone slammed a door in my face because I wasn’t being helpful and I left my shoes somewhere she might trip on them and I couldn’t fucking fix it. 

You can let your shoulders drop. There you go. Relax your jaw. Part your lips. Perfect.

Everyone grows up. When you’re ten, you’re halfway to twenty. You’re not going to get any younger, so there’s no use in delaying it. You might as well know what the adults know. The doctors and therapists said a patient with a traumatic brain injury only has about six to twelve months of heightened plasticity to work with. If they don’t regain the cognitive skills they’ve lost, there’s not much to be done. My grandfather told me this in that mild, matter-of-fact way he would one day tell us his cancer had metastasized. 

I internalized this truth and I understood it. Profoundly. It was staring me in the face every day. But I pretended things would get better the way I pretended to believe in Santa Claus after I discovered a pile of Christmas gifts under your bed. I pretended for you. 

Meanwhile, I kept losing sleep. Watching the clock. Swallowing my vomit because I didn’t want to run to the bathroom and make noise and wake you up while you were in recovery and desperately needed all the rest you could get. 

Against all logic, I kept wishing you’d come crack my bedroom door and let a sliver of light cut the darkness. I wanted you to keep me company the way you used to—to scratch my back and ramble about your day. The costumes you were sewing for the school drama club. The Mary Higgins Clark novel you’d just finished by the pool that afternoon. You were the only person who knew what I needed. Who knew how to take care of me. 

Till I taught myself.

I’ve got a partner and a dog and a quiet house with a garden where I grow strawberries and tomatoes. I’ve learned to write till I can’t hear that siren’s song of self-immolation anymore. I know how to ask for help. How to save money. How to use a can opener. 

But the dark still talks to me. I still need someone with a soft voice to come sit by my bed and remind me that I’m safe and that there’s no glory in hypervigilance at 2 am. 

To remind me that I’m not alone.

I hope that was relaxing for you. Like I said, feel free to fall asleep anytime you want. No pressure to stay awake for me. I’m going to shampoo you now so we can get started on your gorgeous new look. I’ve got the most incredible, fragrant coconut conditioner made with Moroccan Argan oil to help rehab your damaged hair. How does that sound?

Sounds great, Bailey. 

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Liz Kerin is an award-winning playwright, screenwriter, and the author of the NIGHT'S EDGE duology (Tor Nightfire 2023/2024) as well as THE PHANTOM FOREST. Her short fiction has appeared on ReactorMag.com and in print with Truborn Press. This piece marks her first published personal essay. For more, visit lizkerin.com or follow on Instagram at @lizkerin.

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