Kina longs to have silken braided tresses, like Elsa’s, that tumble down her back. She dreams of complex braid patterns that merge into each other like Celtic knots. She imagines, probably, that they will be blonde. We’ll see.
She’s been asking to grow it out, so it’s been two years since she had a really significant trim, and her hair still barely falls below her chin. I’ve talked about her curly hair before, and while I made the assessment last year that Kina was a 2B girl, I am now convinced that she’s made the leap to 2C, which Allure tells me is quintessentially Shakira hair, and she may get still curlier—the more Kina’s hair grows, the more twisty it gets, desperate at all costs to avoid her shoulders.
This is why I have kept my own hair so short for the last twenty years. Absent careful tending, my head will inevitably and slowly come to resemble a furry mushroom. The first time my parents picked me up from college, I hadn’t had a haircut in three months, and I had to turn sideways to get out of my dorm.
Laurea’s mother has curly hair, too, which is how we know that gravity eventually comes for all loose curls. Kina’s genetics, then, tell us that her hair will always trend outwards, but I’m confident that, with time, Kina will get those long, luxurious locks she’s hoping for—the equivalent of seven feet of straight hair, kinked up like a drunken spring.
We’re all very patient here while the years curl out, and Laurea’s become quite skilled at smoothing Kina’s hair into a ponytail for school in the morning. By the afternoon, when Kina stumbles into the apartment, long wisps of hair have come loose, errant waves stretching off into space. It’s lovable mess—as she is—and I find her hair a lot more fetching than I do Elsa’s.
We’re all in it together now. I’ve given up on suggesting to Kina that she cut it short again, and I’m committed to getting her curls down to the other side of her shoulders. I’ll just have a lot of detangling to do as we go.