The last time I chatted with L. at her house, her hair was free. Thick dark hair, shinier than what I’ve seen in any L’Oreal commercial. Usually tied up in tails like ponies or wrapped up in buns bigger than an orange. This time, though, while she nursed her most-recently-born, her next youngest stood behind her. He stroked her layered hair, repeatedly trying (and mostly failing) to gather her hair into a scrunchie. Each time he finished the new ‘do, she yanked it out, with a chiding tsk. But she let him keep trying.