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I watch him without meaning to, the way his head tilts slightly when he laughs, the sun catching those pale rings of blonde that have been his since childhood. I’ve never given his hair a second thought before — it’s just Simon — but now, close enough to see the tiny, individual spirals, it’s like discovering a secret garden.
Something gentle takes my hand forward. A single curl slips between my fingers, it’s cooler than I expect and soft, springy under my touch. I try to coax it straight, fingernails tracing along the shaft as if I can persuade it to obey, but the moment I stop, it bounces back into itself as if embarrassed to have been tamed.
“How do you take care of it?” I ask, surprised at the curiosity in my voice. It’s half practical, half wondering where his hair ends and he begins.
He turns, a slow smile spreading. “This old mess, Lex?” He says, but it’s fond. “Been like that since I was tiny. My mum used to sing to me and braid it for bed. Never much of a fuss otherwise.”
I’m not satisfied with that. “But… Is it difficult to live with hair like this?” I ask, earnest. The question hangs between us, soft as the curl in my hand.
He considers it, head cocked. “Depends what you mean by difficult. It’s high-maintenance in its own way — the curls get dry if you let them, and they hate wind. I can’t just run a comb through and be done. But it’s also pretty low-stress: Little drying, no straighteners, just a bit of product and leave it to do its thing.”
He tells me about the small rituals: A wide-toothed comb used only on wet hair, coconut oil once a week like a guilty pleasure, the occasional leave-in conditioner in winter, and sleeping on a silk pillowcase his brother swore by. He jokes about the "bedhead crown" that emerges in the mornings and about nonchalant shrugging when people offer to "fix" it. There’s pride braided into his casual tone — pride and history, the sort you inherit from a thousand small acts of care from people who loved you when you were small.
I wind the curl around my finger, tracing the pale halo where the sunlight slips through. Up close I can see the faint memory of gold along the strand, pale and honest, and I realise how intimate these details are — markers of childhood summers, of the person he has always been.
“You were always the same,” I say, softer now. “I never really thought about it.”
“Most people don’t,” he murmurs. “They notice the face or whatever, not the hair, Lex.”
I try to picture him younger, a reckless little boy with sunburned knees and mop-top hair, and the image fits too well. It makes his present self seem more… Continuous, a line from past to now. My fingers hesitate, then, on impulse, I smooth the curl down as if to test it again. It resists, but the movement feels like permission.
“It’s lovely,” I tell him. It’s a small confession, but there’s more to it than appearance. There’s the intimacy of touching something that’s been his for years, the small joy in learning how he keeps a part of himself.
Simon laughs quietly, pleased. “If you want the full routine, I can give you a list,” he says. “And you can help with the coconut oil nights. It’s practically a social event, Lex.”
I find myself smiling at that, already picturing the absurdity of it: Two mugs of tea in the kitchen while he slathers oil through his curls, the television murmuring something unimportant in the background. The thought is domestic and oddly tender.
“Deal,” I say, and when I let the curl fall back to its natural curl, it bounces into place like a seal of agreement between us.