Bad Hair Day
As a native Californian, I have lived a privileged life: my favorite tree has always been ‘palm,’ a SweetGreens salad place was never more than five minutes away, and, until last year, I wasn’t exactly sure what a snow plow looked like. But none of these privileges compare to the ability to walk out of the shower at eight in the morning, throw on a tank top and run to class, letting my hair air-dry along the way. Now, in New York City, I can hear my hair, condensed into rock solid icicles, clank against my headphones as I huddle-walk to class. I can practically see the split ends breaking off as I waddle along in my knee-length coat, knowing there’s nothing to do but wait for it to thaw.
Bad Hair Day
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