When she thought of her mother, it was her elegance that she remembered. Even when she was ill and weak, her mother never appeared without make-up, her hair and nails always immaculate. Nails were an important detail, she had often said: always take care of your hands. Many would dismiss it as pointless preening, but to Sarah, like her mother, it was a symbol, a significant gesture: I still take time to look my best. I am a super-busy, working woman, I have responsibilities, three children (one cancer), I am consumed by my daily routine, but I haven’t given up, I haven’t disappeared, I’m here, still here, feminine and perfectly groomed, whole: see the tips of my fingers. I am here.

Sarah was here. In front of the mirror. She gazed at her damaged nails, her thinning hair. At that very moment, she felt something resonate deep inside her, as if some tiny part of her refused the death sentence. No, she would not die. She would not give up.

She was an Amazon, a warrior, a fighter. An Amazon would never ‘let herself go’. She would fight to her last breath. She would never give up.

She must return to the fight, take up the struggle once more. In her mother’s name, in her daughter’s name, and in the names of her sons, who needed her. In the name of all the wars she had waged. She must carry on. She would not lie down in that bed, not let herself sink into the arms of death. She would not be buried alive. Not today.

She dressed quickly. To cover her head, she grabbed a knitted hat from the cupboard – a child’s hat that lay forgotten, with a superhero badge on the front. Never mind, it would keep her warm.

She left the house, dressed just as she was. It was snowing outside. She had thrown on a coat, over three sweaters piled one on top of the other. The clothes made her look tiny, like a Highland sheep staggering under the weight of its tangled fleece.

Sarah left the house. Today was the day, she had decided.

She knew exactly where to go.

Giulia

Palermo, Sicily

Italian people want Italian hair.

The phrase dropped like a butcher’s cleaver. In the living room of the family house, Giulia had just set out to her mother and sisters her plan to import Indian hair, and save the workshop.