I slid into a line of girls combing through racks of nude-colored sports bras and thonged one-piece bathing suits. I hadn’t actually picked a costume yet—nor was I even thinking about what animal or character I’d pretend to be. I just knew I was going to wear as little as humanly possible.
Perched on the edge of the bathtub, I balance a laptop on my damp knees and squint through a protein-oil haze. Conditioner drips from damp spirals. The weight of the overpriced hydrating cream is so heavy that I can barely read what my fingers have frantically been typing into the search bar: “how to untangle knotted hair.”
Narratives of sexual violence fill the public air these days like gnats in summer, but I do still find them fairly invisible in life here.