Taming the Mane

On curls, chaos, and a mane that won’t be tamed.

There is a very specific kind of intimacy reserved for hair. Not the glossy, shampoo-commercial kind. The real kind. The kind where someone reaches out—without asking—and touches it. The kind where, at three years old, you misunderstand love as literal.

One of my first memories is sitting in the car with my dad. He got out to pump gas, leaned back in through the window, and said, “I love your hair so much. It’s so beautiful. I wish I had your hair.” So I cut it off.