This is the part where I have my revelation. I explain in awed terms the miraculous hair-care technique that has enabled me to love my curls and embrace my identity and live my life. Well, that would be bullshit because I still have no idea what to do with my hair, ever.
Last year, I had several library friends. We spent hours together in the oblong den that is the Saybrook college library, listening to the near-silent hum of the yellowish lamps, the soft, soothing rhythms of typing fingers, the occasional mysterious shriek from the courtyard. We listened to each other breathe, from quiet mid-paper sighs to huffs of relief at the end of a pset. We made eye contact once or twice, too.
An earth(l)y revelation
There’s something about tactile experience that just can’t be paralleled. Especially when you’re holding your tactile experience tactilely in your tactile hands, cupped in a tactile paper towel, fresh out of the (need I mention, tactile) laundry machine. Okay. So I found poop in my laundry.