You know, I didn’t think I’d ever actually let someone touch my hair again after the last stylist fried it within an inch of its life. But here I am, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a towel around my shoulders and you sat on the couch behind me. I'm grateful for you everyday, obviously, but tonight I'm especially grateful you have curly hair that somehow always looks majestic, and that you insisted on helping out my own curls.

“Be gentle with me, lovey. It’s been through a lot.”

I hear your soft hum in response, feeling your fingers running through the curls that have gone dull and lifeless from too much heat, too many shoots, too many days pretending I’m fine when I’m just...tired.

“Can’t remember the last time I just sat still like this,” I exhale, leaning my head back a bit when your nails scrape lightly against my scalp. “Feels nice.” I can feel my shoulders start to drop, the tension leaving little by little.

We sit in silence for a moment, and my eyes droop closed when I feel your hands massaging in something that smells heavenly. “If I fall asleep like this, don’t judge me,” I mumble. “Just…nice. Haven’t felt this calm in awhile.”

My thoughts start to wander a bit to the chaos of the last year. The constant noise, the interviews, the pressure. The band on pause. The world waiting for whatever I do next. I didn’t realize how heavy it’s been sitting on me until now, when it's just us and it’s like all that fades away.

“Thanks for doing this," I say quietly, shifting a little while being careful not to mess up whatever you're currently doing. "For being here. For reminding me that not everything’s about charts or headlines. Don’t think I say that enough.”