She tells me her hair is flouncy and I ask her what she means.
“You know,” she types, “It bounces off my shoulders.”
“Like it’s short?” I ask.
“No,” she types back. “You know what I mean.”
“LIKE IT’S SPRING-LOADED?” I type. I hope she can see how excited I am. I hope all-caps does that for her.
“NO,” she types, answering in all-caps. I don’t think she understands all-caps. I don’t think she means to yell or even really emphasize the ‘no.’ She just wants to keep the tone of our conversation even.
I type, “Like tight metal coils ricocheting off your shoulders, all pointy and sharp?” I wonder about the damage that’d do, about the bleeding scars and permanent welts and bloodstains on the shoulders of her blouses.
“NO,” she types again.
I wonder if I can pursue this relationship, if it can be right with a girl that can’t be straight with me about her hair.
“Like it’s made of rubber bands?” I type.
“No,” she answers, abandoning all-caps.
I want to twist her indescribable flouncy hair into a knot and swing her around my head, bouncing her off the walls and ceiling so I can see how resilient she is.
