I like having hair. I have never known what to do with it. I credit the females in my clan for this. All, each of them, every one, has tresses, I’d say. They have natural waves and sheens and abundance I do not. I admire what I cannot have.

My Mom believed we could do with a little experimentation in the hair department. She put scotch tape on the bangs part and the ends, then cut. For the better part of youth, I resembled a football player. We tried a permanent in 5th grade and I rather enjoyed the crazed lunatic look.

I tried growing my hair long and it was insulted. I tried finger-fluffing my hair and looked like I forgot to wake up. I submitted to a stylist whose solution was what she called “a Pixie” and I called a crew cut.

My hair and I have come to terms. I don’t ask it to grow or flip or extend or curl or pouf. I don’t wish it different or better or other than it is. Other things warrant attention and my hair seems relieved to be left alone.