So unlike my dad, my mom always parks and goes in with me when she takes me to the airport. She goes through the line with me and stands with me near the entrance to the security check for as long as she can until it's obviously socially awkward that she's still there and she hugs me one last time and lets me go. I don't call her out on this, because part of me really likes it. 


There's something else she always does, though, while we're waiting in line to check in, or whenever she catches a glimpse of my PUID in my wristlet, or sometimes even if we come across an old picture or something: she sees a photo of me from back when I straightened my hair, and she says some variation of Oh look, there's my daughter. My daughter, with the long straight hair. My daughter, who was ashamed to embrace her own identity and spent the majority of her life trying to be something and someone she was not. My daughter, whose hair used to come out in clumps from all the heat and dangerous chemicals she put on it. Evidently that girl was my mother's daughter, and I am not. And I'm sure she doesn't event think about it when she says it, but a little piece inside me just crumbles whenever she says it. Like the person that girl was and the person I am will never be reconciled into one individual in my mother's eyes. Like she'll always want someone I'll never be again.

And speaking of straight-haired Maya as someone I'll never be again, this reminds me of the one thing that can snap me entirely out of ridiculous stupid not-crush phase with this guy: he has told me to my face that he thinks it's stupid that I have vowed to never straighten again. He thinks one of the things I should embrace about my hair is how versatile it can be. He thinks I should consider straightening it for special occasions or something--AS IF  STRAIGHT HAIR IS MORE SPECIAL THAN MY HAIR, as if I as myself am not special enough for a floor-length gown and a ball. He says I shouldn't feel like I'm conforming if I'm just wearing my hair in another style that looks good on me. I don't even know how to interpret thinking straight hair looks good on me; a) do I still think that?, b) do I think it because I think it or because I've spent my whole life with people telling me that's how my hair should look? Regardless, as much as I enjoy being with him, remembering that can kill any and every inkling of desire I have for something more. This is both relieving and unfortunate.

Conversely, to give some points to my father: When I first sent him a picture of me with my hair natural, he said it was the most ME I've ever looked. This is one of those things that he has said that I will never forget, but in a wonderfully positive way.