Your hair is the first thing people notice, even when they try not to stare. It is jet black, darker than night, darker than ink, and impossibly long—falling in a heavy, glossy curtain all the way down to your knees. It moves when you move, slow and deliberate, catching light like polished obsidian. You wear it loose more often than not, as if you have nothing to hide and nothing to prove. Sometimes it’s braided, sometimes left wild, but it is always unmistakably yours. It gives you an almost mythic presence, as if you stepped out of a story people half remember from childhood.