“No,” I agreed.

She looked at her hands.

They were pink from the water, and there was no manicure on them, and I understood suddenly that she takes it off — that she takes off her rings and her polish to come down here, because you can’t wash somebody’s hair properly in three-quarter-inch acrylics.

“Why do you come?” I asked.

“She’s my mother.”

“That is not an answer and you know it.