Dana L. Davis - Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

A little like Stewie. A little like Donald Trump. A little like a nightmare. “I dunno. Regular, I guess.”

“Can’t wait to see it.” London groans. “I hate my hair. I wish it was supercurly like Heaven and Nevaeh’s. It’s so boring the way it is.”

I look at her wavy black hair hanging almost to her waist. The kind of hair I used to close my eyes and pray for when I was a little kid and thought praying to an invisible man actually produced results. Mixed-girl hair. Soft and silky and good to the root.

Dear God, I’d pray. Please let me have pretty hair. Please make my hair long and nice. When I open my eyes, okay, God? Gonna count to three. I’ll have nice hair, right, God? Please, God. Please. But I’d open my eyes and my hair would still be a nappy mess.

“Your hair’s perfect,” I admit with a twinge of jealousy.

London shrugs as if yes, maybe it is, but also she couldn’t care less. Like amazing hair is about as normal to her as a toe.

“Too bad about church tomorrow. I always learn something new at church. Like a supervaluable life lesson. Sorry you can’t go.”

“It’s okay.” Because I will never be a Jehovah’s Witness, anyway. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “I guess you will.”

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