The 90s are making a comeback.

Check on your friends who forgot about 90s rock for the last 20 years and recently started a nostalgic deep dive.

Not me though.

Let’s hurry and get into this newsletter. I need to go play some air guitar in the kitchen.

[brunette]

When I was young, I was always reminded of how thick my hair was. It was, in some ways, a qualifier. A part of what made me, me. Not because I noticed anything about it, but because others did.

When I was four, there was a teacher that would always french braid my hair during recess while I was at daycare. I don’t remember her name, but I remember sitting patiently while the other kids played. Criss cross applesauce. Rubbing my hands along the ground. Inspecting pebbles. Pulling weeds. Waiting patiently while she complimented the hair I’d done nothing to grow.

She worked the chaotic strands into something organized and beautiful. It was the first time I thought that I could be beautiful, too. And as she braided, I could feel the thought and care she put into her movements. She’d check that her pull wasn’t too tight. “Have you ever seen such thick hair?” she’d proclaim as teachers would pass.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, she’d pat my head softly to signify the end of our little recess ritual and I would skip off to join the other kids in a race or picking flowers. Wearing my hair proudly like a new pair of shoes. I ran faster. I jumped higher. It wasn’t like needing attention, but it was everything like feeling noticed.

/

In elementary school, I was always reminded that I was twirling my hair too much. “Slow down or you won’t have anything left to twirl!” But I liked the way my hair felt as it moved against the webs of my fingers. A little coarse. Always cool. I never had a stuffed animal or blanket that brought me comfort, but I had my hair.

/

I’m an adult now, by most definitions. Somewhere along the way was the last time anyone would ever play with my hair. I don’t know why, but this makes me sad.

But today, my daughter asked me to braid her hair. “Like Wednesday Addams, mom.” So we sat on the carpet, her in my lap. Criss cross applesauce. She waited patiently. And I made sure not to pull too tight.

One day my hands won’t work like I want them to anymore. I won’t be able to work her knotty, chaotic strands into something organized and beautiful.

One day it will be the last time that anyone plays in her hair. I don’t know why, but this makes me sad.

Things I’d share if we were in a group chat.

• I don’t love violent horror movies. But I do love a niche list.

• I could listen to Jason Kelce explaining the Twilight saga all day long. Pop culture expert.

• Thank you Great Clips for the great clip about her great clip.

• Someone said I give off “John Oliver vibes” here. I will never financially recover.

Listen to Creed like no one’s watching.
Until next time. - cd