The wooden hairbrush wasn’t a Fuller Brush product – which was the brand recommended by her father’s new girlfriend – but it had been her grandmother’s hairbrush. Most of the bristles had come out, leaving pores that cried out to be filled, or so it seemed. So she didn’t actually use the wooden hairbrush, using a plastic one that didn’t have the same old school feel.

She didn’t know yet what to make of Deborah. He resented her because she was the first woman her father had met since separating from her Mom.

She stormed into the kitchen one morning when she noticed that the wooden hairbrush had disappeared.

"Where’s the hairbrush that was on my dressing table?" she asked him.

"That old thing?" he asked.

"Yes, that old thing – where is it?"

"I threw it out in the garbage," he replied. "Besides, you’ve got that plastic one in your room."

"Why did you do that?" she asked. "Why did you throw it out?"

He could see that she was upset, but he didn’t know why.

"It didn’t have any bristles in it. I’ll get you a new one if you want it – a new wooden hairbrush if you really want – from Fuller Brush, the brand Deborah keeps going on about. Alright?"

"You’re a crummy guy, you know that Dad?"

"Okay, what did I do now?"

"That wooden hairbrush was Nana’s old hairbrush."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"So?"

"Don’t you have any sentimentality in that practical heart of yours?"

"Look, what’s your point, kiddo?"

"My point is that that wooden hairbrush is the only thing I had in my possession that Nana had actually touched. And Nana’s gone now, and I’ll never get to hug her or hold her again. This is like the last straw, Dad. I’m thinking of moving back in with Mom, coz—"

"Honey, come on. Don’t be like this."

"You don’t care about my possessions at all!"

"I respect your things."

"What about tearing that page out of my journal last week?"

"I needed to write down a phone number and there wasn’t any other paper anywhere."

"I don’t care – buy a cell and get people to send you their business cards electronically. Come into the twenty first century, Dad – you’re certainly practically minded enough when it comes to your heartless lack of nostalgia and sentiment."

She stormed from the kitchen. She stayed overnight at a friend’s house, phoning her father to let him know. She was abrupt on the phone, and he knew she was still upset.

The next morning, the wooden hairbrush was back on her dressing table. Also on the table was a brand new Fuller Brush hairbrush – also with a wooden handle – and a new journal with a lock and key. There was a note from Deborah:

"Us girls gotta stick together. He’ll stay away from your things from now on. Maybe you’ll keep the new one for your own kids? Debs."

Deborah wasn’t that bad after all, she decided.