el.is.in.wonderland

I combed my hair today—for the first time in almost a decade.

It felt strange, a little unfamiliar, but also deeply nostalgic. And for a brief moment, it warmed my heart.

I have curly hair, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve avoided combing it. If I do, I look like a lion—wild, puffed up. My curls are the kind that, once lifted by the wind, never really settle back down again. Maybe it’s because I give my hair the bare minimum of care: dandruff shampoo, the occasional hair clip placed strategically here and there, just enough to keep things from getting too chaotic. Or maybe it’s something else. Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve long stopped caring too much about my hair, and truthfully, I think I’d be fine even if I had to cut it all off.

A few weeks ago, around mid-November, I decided to get a short haircut. The hairdresser—whom I found purely by accident because the salon was next to my waxing place—did a good job. Still, I often straighten the front part of my hair before going to work. I’ll admit it: I’m not entirely confident yet about having curly hair.

This afternoon, I tried applying castor oil to my scalp after reading that it’s good for hair health. What I didn’t consider was the winter temperature—around 2–5 degrees Celsius. The oil hardened instantly, turning thick and sticky, barely reaching my scalp and instead clinging stubbornly to the ends of my hair. Ugh.

Right before going to bed, I caught a glimpse of my (as always) messy hair and thought, maybe I should just comb this out. Maybe it would look better.

So I grabbed my mini, travel-size hairbrush. And honestly—something unexpected happened. A feeling surfaced. A nostalgic one. I had forgotten how it feels to have tiny bristles brushing against my scalp. It was soothing, almost tender. My chest softened, and before I realized it, small tears began to form.

I paused for a moment—maybe two minutes—just to sit with that feeling. To let the memory linger. And quietly, I said to myself: welcome back.