The scent of my shampoo is familiar, like the yellowish-orange bottle of baby shampoo that grandma used during bath time. The scent of jasmine, rose, and violet petals being sprinkled with baby powder, right before dancing in the fragrant rain. It’s the only stuff that won’t burn your eyes, she’d say while lathering it in my hair with her soft fingertips, infusing my hair with its calming scent. She wouldn’t stop until my hair was coated in a mound of bubbles. Afterwards, she’d grab my favorite small pink cup, fill it up with tepid water, and pour it over my head until there was no trace of the bubbles in my wet brown hair. Then, she’d wrap me up in the fluffiest cotton towel she could find and hug me close until every last droplet dripping toward my feet was soaked up, and her clothing was damp.