The salt with which I wash my hair is from the Atlantic, and I imagine all the whales and shipwrecks and lovers and sharks and messages in bottles (maybe the ones Sacha and I threw into the Pacific? aren't all seas connected, just one body of water? isn't it the same with souls?) and sand and skeletons and lifeboats and octopi and seashells and ghosts and driftwood and hope that must be instilled into my hair because of it. The way it smells and tastes, I could shake my head and cause a tidal wave, drown a city. They're less dreadlocks than they are an ocean.