Dan and I lived in the same dorm. One day that first spring together, before we’d ever introduced each other to our parents, I emerge from the girls’ shower on my hall and bump into him. I am wearing a yellow robe and flip-flops, and am gripping my shower caddy. My hair is dripping wet; the corkscrew curls I had not yet blown straight with a hair dryer and pressed smooth with a curling iron are dangling about my head. And while I usually wear a full face of makeup, my skin is bare. Not exactly the way I want to be seen by my new boyfriend.
“You have curly hair.” A strange look like bemusement spreads across his face. The memory of white boys teasing me over my hair in high school comes surging back.
“Yeah?” I step back and clutch my robe to my body. I just want to scurry back to my room, shut the door, and emerge when I look presentable. Pretend this whole thing never happened.
“I love it.”
What? You wait what?
Damn.