dailyeatings

After braiding her hair, she always grabs the tips and runs her fingers through them, collecting the invariably large clump of breakaway strands that accumulate. This has become something of a ritual behavior whenever she’s in my car. Twice a week, on the way to summer league—braid, wrap, run hands through ends, collect pile of blonde hairs. Even when there’s no league, she habitually runs her hands through her hair, grabbing at it, combing for broken strands. Little clumps of gold in her hands, she cracks open the window and pushes them into the wind.

While stopped at an intersection, I look over and notice the furball she’s managed to pile up this time. It is a mass of no small size, a surprising amount of curly, golden frizz on her lap. Her head askew, a hair tie between her teeth, I laugh and manage my usual half-expressed mix of surprise, amusement and exasperation—God, Kris, that is just…—before she turns to me with a sharp “What?” as if she doesn’t know exactly what I mean. The hair, Kristen, the hair, I say, as she quickly rounds up the loose strands and cranks open her window. She shoves the mass through the gap, with marginal success. Look, seriously, it’s not that big a deal, I say, it’s not like this car isn’t already covered in—“I’ve got this,” she interrupts, her hands still fumbling with the loose, uncooperative clump. Half of the mess falls back inside. She sighs. “This would work a lot better if the car were moving, Dave.”