I had always been jealous of the hair clips.

For one, they are all extremely beautiful. They shower the head in glittering masses of pink, purple and blue. Headbands made of hard, studded plastic hold them tight and sturdy.

Whereas I am a lone faded cloth grey, with little or no elastic. They jeer and poke at me until all the hair around myself tangles. I hear them whisper about ‘that Gloria’ and have to take comfort with the ear piercings. They tell me this:

“The clips pop, the clips fall. But you are a scrunchy: you keep things together.”