I'm so fugging soh ... rry. Jesus. God. I'm so sorry. I'm so fugging sorry.
She quatted down next to him and rubbed his shoulder.
When will I cherish my hair again, the way my grandmother cherished it, when fascinated by its beauty, with hands carrying centuries-old secrets of adornment and craftswomanship, she plaited it, twisted it, cornrowed it, finger-curled it, olive-oiled it, on the growing moon cut and shaped it, and wove it like fine strands of gold inlaid with semiprecious stones, coral and ivory, telling with my hair a lost-found story of the people she carried inside her?
Then write to any of the banks mentioned, to any rating agency, to any financial house, and they will tell you that here is an opportunity that is as good as wheat in the bin.
