I’m writing this in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by cats. One of them (Finn) is in my lap. He is nestled in the crook of my leg, purring and causing my leg to cramp. I am pinned in place, but don’t mind it so much.

This is how I spent a good portion of childhood—alone in my room (except for a menagerie of cats) writing to no one. Well, someone, I guess. Me. Writing to me, for me. We, as writers, are meant to disregard clichés like this, the things that make us sound like every other writer. They’re meant to go without saying. But I think they sometimes can be said, if you do it right. It’s worthwhile to remind ourselves that we’re all a little bit the same.

I think that every writer is a little bit lonely. Storytelling wasn’t always so solitary a practice. I suppose that it used to be communal, gathered around a fire, reciting poetry from memory. “Sing, Muse,”: you couldn’t even tell the story without divine assistance. The plight of the lone genius is a modern invention. The world is both quieter and louder than it used to be.

I keep having this notion, Nobody, that if I could find a way to style my hair that suited me, I would be okay. Everything, in fact, would be okay, if I could just figure out what to do with my hair, which has never cooperated with me. When I was little, my mom tried to tame my curls with butterfly clips and big bows. They gave me headaches and made me feel like either a doll or a dog. But I understand why my mom did it. Her hair is also naturally curly, and she straightens it everyday.

I discarded the clips and bows as soon as I could and instead tied my hair out of my face in a low ponytail. I did this for years. In every picture from when I was a kid, my ears stick out and the frizz on the top of my head sticks up. As I got older, I began to hate how I looked, of course. I straightened my hair, to disappointing results. It just became flat and lifeless, like a curtain. I put a blue streak in my hair in middle school. I died it red in high school. My sophomore year of college, I got bangs, mostly as an act of aggression. I had always been told that people with curly hair could not have bangs. So if I couldn’t be beautiful, I figured, might as well fully commit to it. I still have bangs. I like them.

My hair is currently as long and unkempt as it has ever been. It feels the most like me, so far, but is still not quite right. I’ve never felt that I look like the person that I am. I think I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to fix my hair, Nobody. It’s a Sisyphean task. 

And sometimes, Nobody, I’ll have this idea that I should just shave my head. That I will watch my hair fall to a razor, tumble to the ground like snow. The chestnut curls that have caused me nothing but strife will be conquered at last. And I imagine that, when my hair grows back, it will be better. Better how, I don’t know. If I knew the specifics with any certainty, I would do it. They say that hair, after you shave it, has a different texture. That might just be an old wives’ tale, but if so many old wives believe it to be true, maybe it’s just that. Not that I’ll ever find out, unless I absolutely must. I don’t have the courage to start over; I worry about being right back where I started. I wonder if people really change, or just become more themselves. Maybe hair’s the same way. It just keeps growing in the same direction. 

I finishing writing this in a café, legs neatly crossed, an iced latte next to my laptop. I live independently; I am not the person I once was. But the roots remain in place. I will always be in my childhood bedroom, a cat in my lap, my mind elsewhere, my hair everywhere.