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Wind in My Hair and Other Things I Don’t Regret

If I ride a bike down a hill with my hair untied and billowing behind me, my thick Italian waves will tangle in an instant. This is, of course, a lower priority than the exhilaration that is pedaling down a hill with the wind in my hair. 


Still, each time I find myself in this situation, I grumble and groan later as I attempt a combination of brushes and combs to maintain some semblance of togetherness on the top of my head.


And yet. 


Last night, around midnight, I left my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn and set my eyes on my home in Queens. It had been the perfect pre-summer evening—sitting on a roof surrounded by kind and interesting people, in the crisp air, knowing it would only be a matter of time before that same air turned oppressive. Truly, spring is a holy season. 


I stepped into the ride share I’d called and laughed to myself at the club music radiating from the speakers of the van. Almost certainly my driver expected someone with a little more pep. Nevertheless, I climbed in and stared out the big open window to my left, the impact of the cool air now forming goosebumps on the uncovered areas met by my hole-torn jeans.


As we picked up speed on the BQE, I felt my hair matting behind me. For a moment, the logical side of my brain thought about how I might regret this in the coming battle with my hairbrush. But as we crossed the Kosciuszko Bridge and I looked out over the lit-up skyline, I was reminded that some things are worth it.


In that moment, I made myself promise something. I was going to have messy hair either way. So I might as well enjoy the thing that got me there. I let my eyes linger on the familiar buildings and then travel up and down the island, picking out the general location of places of significance that I’ve come to know and love in my time in New York. 


I let the wind water my eyes as we picked up highway speed and—knowing summer is creeping around the corner—tried to appreciate how it felt to be a little cold.


There’s no real harm, in this situation, in tangled hair. And if that’s the case—and if the opportunity to have tangled hair could bring me so much unbridled joy—perhaps the best thing we can do is remind ourselves of that, as we stare into the relentless mess and beauty of it all.




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