Hair

It's been chopped, grown, snipped, touched, pressed, curled, washed, dried, loved, hated, manipulated, and finally, accepted. I used to have a short bob until I discovered that all of the girls in Mendoza had long, sleek locks. I grew it out, trying to make it long enough to rest over my shoulders in dark brown waves. In fifth or sixth grade my hair, always having been gently wavy but decently straight and controlled, started to turn on me. It fluffed out in uncontrolled puffs with unattractive and maddening persistence. I would carefully smooth it, attempting to flatten the billows I knew would inevitably erupt from my head as it dried. Time and time again, I was forced to tie it up in tight buns or knot it into braids to conceal the relentless frizz. 

This was war.