Her hair was perfect—like she’d stepped out of a shampoo commercial. Not a hair out of place, not one split end, and it fell in golden waves from her head all the way down to her ankles. It was literally voluminous—it took up more volume than her body. Sometimes she would coyly half-hide behind it.

She always wore it loose. She said it simply wouldn’t stay confined; it would break any hairband or expell any comb she used. It was magic, she said, her bright blue eyes winking at me. And I halfway believed it. Her hair never caught on anything, and sometimes I would swear it moved on its own, even without a breeze.

But I never found out just how strange it was until the day I was following her down to the subway and she suddenly halted unexpectedly. I had been walking right behind her, too late to stop, and I ran right into her. But instead of knocking her down, I passed through her hair as if it were a curtain, and found myself—somewhere else.

And in the distance I heard her moan, “Oh, no, not again.“