“Come here.” Ammu pats the spot on the bed in front of her. When I scoot into position, she pulls me closer and begins running the hairbrush through my hair. It tugs a little at my tangles. It hurts, but only slightly.

When we were kids, Ammu used to brush my and Priti’s hair every night before bed. We loved it so much that we always fought about who got to go first, until Ammu worked out a system: we would each go first every other day, so it was always fair.

“When was the last time you put oil in your hair?” Ammu asks accusatorily, running her fingers through the strands. “Look, your hair’s gone all dry. Once it all falls out there’s no getting it back, you know.”

“My hair isn’t going to fall out, Ammu.”

“You never know. You have beautiful hair, like I had when I was young. And now, look.” I don’t know what she’s talking about, because Ammu’s hair is still long and thick and black as ink. “Don’t cut off your hair, okay?”

I frown. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes girls like you cut their hair short,” she says.

“Girls like … me?”

“You know.”

Lesbians. She’s talking about lesbians. There’s a weird comfort in hearing her—well, not say it exactly, but … recognize it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abbu fidgeting in his chair like he’s not really paying attention to his book.

“There are a lot of lesbians with long hair, too,” I say.

“Where? There’s that woman, you know? Helen DayJinnraas. Her hair is so short, she looks like a … a lesbian.” Ammu’s voice dips low when she says the word lesbian, like it’s not meant to be said aloud.

“Well, she is one. Her name is Ellen DeGeneres, by the way. And her wife has beautiful, long hair.”

“And her wife is a lesbian, not a bisexual?”

I turn around so fast at that that the hairbrush is left swinging from my hair, pulled out of Ammu’s hand.

“What are you doing?” She tries to get a grip of the brush again.

“Why do you know what a bisexual is?”

“I’ve been reading.”

“About lesbians?”

“And bisexuals. And paansexuals.” She says “pansexual” like they’re people attracted to paan, the food, not people who feel attraction to people of all genders. “And … what is it called? Transgender. Like hijra, right?”

“Pansexual, Ammu,” I mumble under my breath, though I’m impressed she knows even this much.

“Paansexual, that’s what I said.” She finally turns me back around and puts the hairbrush away. For a while, we sit in silence; I’m trying to figure out what I should say next while she begins to part the strands of my hair to rub oil into my scalp.