Brown hair, usually short. My mom always reminds me how I am gifted with such a nice, full head of hair, especially in an immediate family of thinning and pale mops. She tells me I am just like Aunt Rosalie, mostly in a physical way. Rinaldo cut it short like Sting in 1986. Short to long to short to long and pulled to a bun to short to long and unbrushed, so back to short. I see my brother in my eyebrows, thick and dark. A hair stylist once told me like caterpillars.

A hot and humid June day, I cover my heavy, short hair with a wild blonde wig. The powdered wig had released itself from its tight form at the bottom of a costume shop storage box. The synthetic hair clings to my face as comfortably as it can in the sticky weather.

Days later, I relax as my neck rests against the cold porcelain; the white paste burns the color from my hair. My scalp is still OK; that is a relief, and abnormal, I am told. Do I want my eyebrows fixed? OK, yes sure.