Brushing my hair makes me cry sometimes, because it’s just me and the mirror, and nothing to hide behind except maybe my hand. But then I can read the fine print of my palm, the ancient lines I’m too young to have, so really I’m not hiding at all. I sit on the toilet and I stare at myself, at the mirror cutting me in half, pretending my hair doesn’t stop at my breasts, but keeps going down, down, down until I can almost feel it round my waist. I sit there and I brush it and I wonder, again, how princesses gave their tresses one hundred strokes of the brush before bed, when I need only a dozen. Then I remember that I am not a princess. And the only thing of mine that needs a hundred strokes a day is my ego. I touch my hair and it is limp and sad and dry and dirty. I am not a princess. And the only real use of the damn brush is for a good spanking.