周末的午后,一直做的事情就是给父亲拔白头发。那天父亲把我叫到阳台,不好意思地递给我一把镊子,我自然会意,点头接过。我望着父亲的头发,乌黑之中夹杂着点点银光,在阳光下显得刺眼。我用镊子夹起一根,如同做实验般认真地拔起,像是在拔一棵杂草。拔起的瞬间,父亲的身子微微一颤。“痛吗?”我问,脸色慌张。父亲只是摇头。他总是这般沉默。我已习以为常,我们已经很久没有沟通了。我只是静静地拔,拔下来的白发放在父亲手里。他的掌心粗糙,纹路细密。 Weekends, the thing has always been done is pulling white hair to his father. Father called me to the balcony that day, embarrassed to hand me a pair of tweezers, I naturally know, nodded over. I looked at my father’s hair, dark black mixed with a little silver, dazzling in the sun. I picked up one with tweezers and tried to pull it up as if experimenting, like pulling a weed. The moment of pulling up, his father’s body slightly trembling. “Pain?” I asked, his face panic. Father just shook his head. He is always silent. I’ve been used to it, we have not communicated for a long time. I just quietly pull out the white hair in his father’s hand. His palm is rough and the lines are fine.