Our Song by A. Destiny

into this bob a few weeks ago, and I haven’t let it air-dry since.”
    When I peeked into the mirror over the dresser, I gasped.
    â€œI look like a goth Orphan Annie!” I whisper-screamed. My hair had frizzed into ringlets that sproinged up and out all over my head. So not only did it feel like a dandelion, with its fuzzy, spherical shape, it looked like one too.
    â€œUrgh,” I groaned. “By the time I get this straightened out, I’m going to completely miss dinner.”
    Annabelle frowned at me.
    â€œNell, can I give you some advice?”
    Normally, I would have hesitated. Every time Annabelle offered me advice, she used all these life-coachy terms like “listen to the universe” and “get in touch with yourself.” All of it made zero sense to me.
    My mom, on the other hand, would have loved Annabelle. They both did yoga and wore the kind of gauzy skirts you can buy off a street rack for fifteen dollars apiece.
    Also like Annabelle, my mom wore her curls long. They trailed down her back, all soft and springy, the same dark-blond color my hair had been before I dyed it. Black and blunt suited me better, or so I’d thought.
    But given my currently desperate situation, I said to Annabelle, “Okay, yes. Please tell me what to do about this mess.”
    â€œWell, don’t call it a mess, for starters,” Annabelle said. “Your hair is part of you. You have to embrace it. You have to love it!”
    â€œEasy for you to say,” I said, pointing at her glossy, tightly corkscrewed mane. It was tied loosely at the nape of her neck, anda few tendrils bounced adorably on her cheeks. “You’ve got the hair of a goddess.”
    â€œWell, it’s not easy,” she reprimanded. “I hope I don’t have to tell you about the history of African-American women and their hair.”
    I tried not to sigh as Annabelle launched into a lecture about the social politics of hot combs and relaxers. I wondered if she ever got tired of being so meaningful .
    As she moved onto a history lesson about Madam C. J. Walker, she also began to work on my hair. She sprayed it down with a water bottle, then worked some fruity-smelling hair gel through it. She quickly worked her way around my head, coiling small sections of my hair around her fingers. Finally she grabbed a couple of lobster-claw clips out of a dish on her dresser and loosely clipped my bangs back at the temples.
    â€œAnd . . . done,” Annabelle said. She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me toward the mirror.
    My mouth popped open.
    My hair was frizz free. The curls that had been standing straight up, looking frazzled and angry, were now prettily framing my face. But I hadn’t been transformed into a clone of Annabelle or my mom. My hair was still a bit blunt and edgy, the way I liked it, but instead of being crisp and straight-edged, it looked light and springy.
    It had taken Annabelle all of five minutes to achieve.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” Annabelle said, before I could get it together to thank her.
    â€œI—I love it!” I said.
    â€œJust promise me you’ll own it,” Annabelle said. “Your hair is you , Nell. Always remember that.”
    I nodded even as I was thinking, No, Annabelle. Hair is just hair.
    Nevertheless, I did feel kind of different, even floaty, as Annabelle and I walked together to the dining hall. Something about my head feeling so light and breezy made my hurt feelings lighten too.
    That didn’t mean I was ready to face Jacob yet. At our table, I strategically positioned myself three seats away from him. I was far enough from him that we couldn’t talk, yet close enough that we couldn’t make eye contact across the table. Our view of each other was blocked by Marnie and Isabelle chatting animatedly between crunchy bites of radish salad.
    I ate as quickly as possible and headed for the kitchen. Not only did I have Jacob