It would be my call to make, that perfect moment of doneness.
I’ll put her hair in pigtails, fishtails, French braids, waterfall braids, Dutch braids—whatever she wants.
Are you, like, actually a boy?
I wanted to pretend I was okay, that it was a happy day and I was there for a better reason.
It’s not the spasms or pain I remember, only the damp, hot, itchy, smelly strips of wool.
