The Nine Guardians by Rosario Castellanos — Read

Mother's just out of the bath and her hair is dripping. She wraps it in a towel so that it won't wet the bedroom floor.

I follow because I like to see her dress. She draws the curtains, foiling the street's curiosity. A discreet, silent warm shadow fills the room. From the drawers of the dressing-table Mother takes the stiff bristle brush, the piebald tortoiseshell comb, the pots of different-coloured cream, the pomades for lashes and brows, the red pencil for her lips. She opens them carefully and uses them one by one.