When I was eleven, my grandfather (my father's father, a man who walked arthritically, leaning on two steel-reinforced Mexican canes carved with lizards and Aztec designs) told me to promise him I'd never cut my hair again.

I could feel the cold air tickling the back of my neck. My hand went to the back of the top of my head to check if my hair was still poufed high.

"My teacher said I couldn't come back to class until I got it cut." This was true; I didn't lie to him. The ratted hill of hair on top was just a touch I added myself.

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