One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter: Essays

by Scaachi Koul

Home, somehow, is always the last place you left, and never the place you’re in.

It is taxing to consider the circumstances that can take an unmarked human canvas and make it rage-filled and petty and lost. It’s not fun to have sympathy for the people who are trying to hurt you. But their actions can sometimes make sense: what’s easier than trying to get better is trying to break something else down.

It’s easier to rebel against hair norms if you’re a woman generally unburdened by them in the first place.