Once I saw my Masurian grandmother’s hair fall in pale amber waves over her left shoulder like a spell. She was half-facing the window, perched on the armchair’s edge, head inclined to the side, in swift ritual. She wove three strands into a tress from the nape to below the waist as if wringing her hands. Her rosary-deft fingers didn’t falter. For a moment her lioness braid swung loose. Then she coiled it into a bun, fastened with pins she pulled one by one from her pressed-firm lips. The tuft spun and danced, was tucked in last, lay unobserved all day.