By your hair you were known, and more than that, you were recognizable from blocks away. Gigantic beyond reckoning, like a great haystack of singed cornsilk, your hair bounced gently on top of your head as you walked. When you turned, vectors of force rippled through your hair. Some days you'd come by after school and we'd walk up South Park Street together to the Lord Nelson Hotel, where we'd wait for our parents to come pick us up. You liked my hair, which I found funny - I had a mohawk at the time, and you liked rubbing the bristled nap.
That was grade 10. You left for Toronto a couple of years later and sent me a few letters, which I still have somewhere. I lost track of you until I turned on the television one day in university and found out that you were a pop star. My roommate was a gigantic fan of yours, and when she found out that I had letters from you, she begged me to let her see them. I did. You'd written to me on coloured stationery.
I watched one of your videos. The music was a bit radio-friendly for me but still good - but your hair, once the world's most powerful blond afro, had been tamed into ringlets.