Comb your hair

Back in college, I experimented with different hair styles, fumbling with my identity.

When I’d visit my mom, she would look me over and always conclude her inspection by telling me to “comb your hair.” Being a know-it-all college kid, her comment annoyed me to no end. Why does she think she can tell me what to do? Can’t she see that I’m my own person?

In retrospect, her reasoning is now obvious:

She told me that because in front of her stood not a boy with spiky hair—but the man she wanted me to become.