When I'm upset, I like to brush my hair. Long after the tangled waves are tamed, over and over, I continue. I count the strokes, in the hundreds, and don't stop even when there are enough strands on the ground to ball up and choke somebody. Then it is as if I can't stop, not even if I wanted to, like my arm doesn't know how to do anything else but return to the crown of my head. Three-hundred-four...three-hundred-five...

It's not an act of vanity - I don't feel beautiful afterwards. I just like the rhythm I can create.