“I had a funny dream last night,” Mum says.

“Oh yes, what was it about?” I continue snipping away at her hair with the scissors.

“I was in love with a toyboy,” she chuckles.

“Was he handsome?” I ask, still snip snipping..

“I don’t know. That’s not what I remember…” she trails off.

“Did you make love?” I bring her back.

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

“How old was he?” I ask. (Compared to my ninety-one year old mother a man of eighty could be considered a toyboy.)

“Oh, about twenty,” she delights in telling me.

“A proper toyboy then,” I agree, “and did he mind the difference in your ages?”

“Well,” Mum begins, “that didn’t come into it. He didn’t seem to notice. He just loved me for who I am, and I loved him. I woke up feeling ‘in love’.”

“I wish I had dreams like that,” I say.

I have stopped cutting her hair. I look at my mum’s neck and shoulders – her skin, which is still quite nice, does not betray her age – and I wonder when those shoulders were last kissed. Not for a very long time, I guess, except in her dreams…

I finish the haircut. We hug and kiss goodbye. Obviously, it’s not the same kind of love as in her dream, but I think she knows that she is loved for being exactly who she is.