早起,母亲又在梳头发了。她向右偏着头,右手轻握一缕发丝,左手持着木梳,轻轻地,一下又一下地梳着头发。透过她略略稀疏、薄薄的、蓬松的头发,我似乎能隐约看到母亲的手掌。她将梳下来的头发板板正正地收好,放到发黄的报纸里,在那里,我见到了母亲被时间侵蚀的痕迹。记忆中母亲的头发还未如此。曾翻看过母亲年轻时的照片,照片上母亲的面庞泛着青春红润的光,戴着高高的研究生帽,一缕流苏静静垂下,尤为引人注目的,便是她 When I got up early, my mother combed her hair again. She turned her head to the right, held a wisp of hair in her right hand, and combed her hair in her left hand, gently, and again and again. Through her slightly sparse, thin, fluffy hair, I seem to be able to vaguely see the mother’s palm. She closed her combed hair straight and put it in the yellowed newspaper, where I saw the traces of the mother being eroded by time. Memory of the mother’s hair is not the case. Had seen the picture of her mother when young, the photo on the mother’s face glowing youthful red light, wearing a tall cap graduate, a bunch of tassels quietly hanging down, is particularly striking, is her