Sometimes, I see my mum searching in the mirror, a stranger to herself, trying to place her own face. Her black hair is streaked with with white, which has been true since she was my age, her early thirties, but has only recently come to the surface. For decades she coloured it once a month in the basemen with a hotel shower cap on her head, ironing while waiting for the timer to ding. It was my sister who convinced mum to go natural a few years back. Now strangers stop her on street to gush about her hair. She was worried about looking old, but the truth is, she only looks lovelier and more brave.