Alison's Final Essay: Love, Students, and Teaching

Brian McGee here.  Today, I am posting Alison's final essay, which has been published in the Fall 2016 issue of the College of Charleston magazine.

By "final," I mean this is the last essay on which Alison worked.  Alison wrote prolifically, of course, and some of her work will be printed and reprinted in the future.

Here's the full text of the essay:

As I write these words, I am terminally ill and in hospice care.  This is likely my final writing assignment.

Instead of writing an essay, I've been thinking of this assignment as my love letter for Charleston.  Not about Maybelle, my daughter, or Brian, my husband -- though you could say I have them both in my life because of my years in Charleston.  Nor is this a love letter about a physical place.  I won't reflect on riding my bicycle through our beautiful campus (well, I didn't really love riding my bike through sudden downpours and Charleston's flooded streets).  And I won't dwell on the long hours I spent in my former basement office at 7 College Way or drinking coffee and eating bagels at every coffee shot on the peninsula, though I took delight in every one of those moments.

Illustration by Britt Spencer. 

This is a love letter for my College of Charleston students, and for my profession.  Love is the right word, I think, because my kind of teaching is about passionate engagement with, and enthusiasm about, ideas, social problems and people.  I couldn't imagine merely "liking" teaching.

You may be wondering, what have my students done that makes me love our time together?  They have studied and strived, although complaining more than a little about the amount of reading and writing and the difficulty of the material.  The excitement for me and for them -- and the passion -- is in growing to understand how difficult material matters and why difficult subjects must be engaged.

Community engagement has been critical to this kind of teaching.  Years ago, some of our women's and gender studies learning-community students traveled to Washington, D.C., to meet with women in elected office and women who lead nongovernmental organizations.  More regularly, my Gender and Violence students performed community service with agencies dealing with violence against women and children.  As advocates for victims in the Charleston's solicitor's office or as volunteers with People Against Rape and many other organizations, these amazing students did immediate and lasting good.  For me, teaching them was about bridging the classroom and the community.

Calling them "my students," though, isn't quite right.  Because I learned from them, as they learned from me.  And we grew together as people.

If you were ever in one of my classes, know that I love you now for the risks you took, the challenging topics you weren't afraid to discuss, and everything you did to make yourself -- and me -- a better person.

I am sorry, so sorry, that I will not teach and learn from College of Charleston students in the decades to come.  I won't be meeting any more classes for the first time in the Robert Scott Small Building or Maybank Hall or the Education Center.

However, I do leave the College knowing the beauty of my profession.  I leave knowing the great good that can be done when teacher and student are emotionally invested in learning and in the hard work of changing their world for the better.  I also leave knowing that faculty like Claire Curtis (political science) and Marguerite Scott-Copses (English) and Caray DeLay (women's and gender studies), and so many others at the College, are all that is good and right and wonderful about professors and their profession.

Guest Blog: Baxter, Waiting

Note: This is a guest blog written by Eliza McGraw, Alison's friend.  A shorter version of this essay was read on Eliza's behalf at Alison's funeral.  The reader was another friend of Alison's, Christy Burks.

I am heartbroken not to be with you all today, but wanted to share some of my thoughts about Alison.

            

Alison and I met in graduate school at Vanderbilt, when we were 21, and we stayed close all these years, so I have way too many stories I could tell. I can see her so easily: Alison laughing and holding her hair back, Alison reading with Baxter, her giant white shepherd, draped across her lap, Alison singing with Maybelle.

Maybelle with Baxter.  Baxter died in 2009.

I know that among so many other things Alison was an extraordinary activist, speaker, mother, and teacher. But here's what I want to say: she was an exceptional, inspired scholar. We are lucky to have what she gave us, but we are also going to miss the body of work that she would have produced, and be the less for it. She wasn't finished, and now there's going to be an empty space on the bookshelf. I just know she had a lot left to say, and to write. 

Alison's work always showed a certain kind of expansiveness, a willingness to reach for a more complex theory or idea. She didn't shy from elucidation but she wasn't didactic. While she wrote the first drafts she questioned everything, but in the final versions of her articles or books, her reasoning was sharp, assured. Her mind was everquesting, thoroughgoing. She had an enviable ability to hone ideas without overgeneralizing, fortify concepts without repetition.

Also: Alison was so generous. She sometimes credited others with what I would have to point out were actually pretty original conclusions. In her acknowledgements for Out In Public, she informed readers when my book was coming out. (For those of you who never read the acknowledgments: that's not typical.)

I visited Alison earlier this summer. We'd stopped talking about work by then. Instead, we leaned back on another shared constant: our animals. We took a walk to see some ducks she had grown fond of, and coming back from visiting the ducks, we started talking about our favorite animals. Many of them are gone, and we got onto the topic of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series, which describes people who lose their animal companions as "severed." In one of the books, these people reunite with their animals after they die. (Right now, I am imagining Alison telling me I am veering too close to plot summary.)

Anyway, Alison said she liked that idea, and while I also liked the thought that she'd see Baxter again—that somehow, Baxter was waiting for her, chin on paws—it was all too much for me and I started to cry. Alison cried too, and we walked along like that, two crying people, for a little while. I said something else about the Dark Materials series. Alison listened. Then she said, slowly, "But, you know, there are some pretty serious problems with those books. The women in them, that mother. . ."

Alison was a scholar to the very end. She wouldn't simplify and she wouldn't boil down. She could love the quote—cry over it--and still see its problems, turn the text over in her mind, consider all the angles, refuse to commit to one. I laughed, standing in the hot street, holding onto her arm, my tears falling, and Alison laughed, too.

She's always been ahead of me.

I miss her so much.  

Additional Information about the Funeral

Brian here, with information for those attending Alison's funeral tomorrow at the Unitarian Church in Charleston (4 Archdale St.), or hoping to watch online. 

Parking.  Folks attending the funeral have the option to park at the Queen Street parking garage or the Majestic Square garage, where normal parking charges will apply.  Those affiliated with the College of Charleston may choose to walk the short distance from campus.  There is no parking available at the church.  Additional parking questions should be addressed to church staff.

Seating.  While the Unitarian Church has a large and beautiful sanctuary, we have planned for the possibility of a large congregation.  Overflow seating will be available, if needed, at Charleston Day School, which is conveniently located directly across the street.  The service will be streamed live for viewing in the overflow space. 

Childcare.  Childcare will be available during the service. 

Reception.  A reception will follow the service in Gage Hall, which is located next door to the Unitarian Church. 

Online Viewing.  We have arranged for live video streaming of the funeral at ustream.tv/channel/preshow-testing. 

The webcast will begin a few minutes after 3:00.  Viewers who open the webpage before the webcast begins may need to refresh the page to initiate the stream.  Please be patient if there are technical challenges. 

Alison’s family is deeply appreciative of the love and support we have received in the days since Alison’s passing.  

Guest Blog: Alison's Time

Note: This is a guest blog by Brian McGee, Alison's husband.  

To share a life with Alison Piepmeier was to be constantly aware of her uneasy relationship with time.

Alison’s unaffected brilliance, which she wore as casually as her Star Wars tee-shirts, was enough to assure her professional success.  On the strength of intellect alone, Alison had the ability to stand out in a crowd of the smartest and best-educated people on the planet.  And she did.

But wit and erudition weren’t sufficient to make her the enthusiastic presence, the cheerful dynamo so many of us came to adore.  Often, it was Alison’s anxious awareness of the passage of time that provided the abundance of energy she channeled so effectively to teach, to serve her community, to mentor students – and always, always, to write.  It was Alison’s anxious awareness of time that frequently had her finishing tasks and moving on to the next challenge hours or days before deadlines. 

For Alison, doing more was always the goal.  Spending more time with students in need.  Creating a more just and inclusive campus and local community.  Writing more articles.  Spending more time with her family and friends.  Organizing more learning activities and adventures for Maybelle. 

Alison seemed to do everything, and she did everything well.  Always, though, she wondered if she was doing enough, even as she wrote books, journal articles, columns, and blog entries.  Even as she taught, parented, and seemed to go and be everywhere in Charleston. 

Of course, a brain tumor, surgery, and chemotherapy changed her relationship with time.  Alison now had to sleep more, live with the constant possibility of a seizure, and take medications at the right time.  She had to organize a life in which she relied on a bicycle as her primary transportation, because for several years her condition prevented her from driving a car.  (Happily, she was able to drive again in her last few years.)

More fundamentally, Alison had to confront a steady drumbeat of reminders about her own mortality.  She had to live with the ability of medical professionals to predict however imperfectly, the most likely dates of her demise.  For Alison, memento mori was no gentle warning about a distant future.  Tempus fugit. 

Focus was never Alison’s problem, but nothing was quite so focusing as her physician’s affidavit stating that she had 6-12 months to live.  Nothing was so anxiety-inducing as the realization that she had to prepare for her daughter’s life after her own death. 

As she approached the end of her own time, Alison was magnificent.  She remained an engaged parent, even as her physical abilities noticeably declined.  She also wrote, and wrote well, and wrote movingly, even in her final weeks of life. 

We all wanted, desperately, for Alison to have more time.  No one deserved time more than she, and, if given, no one would have made better use of it.  But no one who knew what she accomplished would question what was done in Alison’s time. 

There was no better physical evidence of Alison’s relationship with time than the cheap watches she constantly wore.  A publicity photo many of us have seen of Alison shows her wearing an all-black, plastic watch that cost $12.  More recently, she wore a slightly more expensive Timex.  The luxury of a $25 watch was permitted only because I bought it for her. 

Alison's watch.  She never, ever set the date.

Alison wanted her watch to be plain and functional, preferably with a glow-in-the-dark setting.  And her watch had to be waterproof, because Alison desired never to take it off.  Alison needed to maintain her constant communion with time, a need that a cell phone couldn’t satisfy.  In the shower, or at 3:00 in the morning, Alison always could measure time’s passage against her goals for the week and the demands of her schedule. 

In her final days, Alison slept constantly, and peacefully.  She opened her eyes only a few times a day and was never truly awake. 

But I wasn’t surprised when the slumbering Alison occasionally lifted her left arm and turned it, very deliberately, as if to consider the patch of untanned skin where her watch should have been. 

Even as her time on Earth ended, some part of Alison could not leave time be.  

Obituaries, the Funeral, and Chewbacca

Today's Post and Courier carries an obituary for Alison.  ABC News also ran a story about Alison.

The funeral will take place on Friday, August 19, at 3:00 p.m. at the Unitarian Church in Charleston (4 Archdale St.).  A reception will follow the service at the Church's Gage Hall, which is next door to the Unitarian Church.

Alison loved the UU faith community, which supported her so wonderfully during her illness.  We thank Rev. Reed and the entire Unitarian Church family for all they have done for Alison, Maybelle, and me.

Here's the family-approved obituary, which includes information for donations to the Alison Piepmeier Scholarship Fund.  If you have expressions of sympathy for any member of the Piepmeier family, you are very welcome to use the comments section below:

"College of Charleston professor and writer Alison Massa Piepmeier of Charleston, SC, 43, died August 12, 2016, six years and many treatments after being diagnosed with brain cancer.  

"Piepmeier was born and grew up in Cookeville, TN, where she attended Tennessee Tech University.  She earned a doctoral degree in English from Vanderbilt University, where she taught for several years.  Piepmeier came to the College of Charleston in 2005 as the Director of the Women’s and Gender Studies Program, a position she would hold for the next decade.  In that role, she successfully led the effort to create a separate academic major in Women’s and Gender Studies at the College of Charleston. 

"An accomplished scholar who had recently focused on disability studies, Piepmeier published two books, one edited volume, and many academic articles. She was a guest lecturer or scholar at several universities and was a former officer of the National Women’s Studies Association and a former president of the Southeastern Women’s Studies Association.  At the time of her death, Piepmeier was conducting research on the high incidence of abortion for fetuses with a risk for Down Syndrome. 

"In Charleston and nationally, Piepmeier was a frequent media commentator on social justice and on disability.  Her columns and academic research were featured in leading print and online news outlets, including the New York Times. 

"Piepmeier was best known in Charleston for her column on Southern feminism in the Charleston City Paper.  Her final column, in which she acknowledged her imminent death and expressed thanks for her “beautiful life,” was widely read online and led to stories at abcnews.com and the website of Us Weekly. 

"The online magazine Charlie recognized Piepmeier in 2014 as one of the 50 most progressive people in Charleston. 

"Piepmeier is survived by her daughter, Maybelle Biffle-Piepmeier; her husband, Brian McGee; her parents, Lee and Kelly Piepmeier of Cookeville, TN; her brother, Trey Piepmeier, and his partner, Olivia Miller, of Greensboro, NC; her brother, Aaron Piepmeier, Aaron’s wife, Mary Piepmeier, and their daughter, Margot, of Greensboro, NC.

"A Memorial Service will be held at the Unitarian Church in Charleston, 4 Archdale Street, Charleston, SC 29401 on Friday, August 19, at 3:00 p.m.  A reception will follow in the Church's Gage Hall. 

"In lieu of flowers, Piepmeier requested that gifts be made in her memory to the Women’s and Gender Studies Program, 66 George Street, College of Charleston, Charleston, South Carolina 29424, or at giving.cofc.edu/piepmeier.  These gifts will help establish a scholarship in Piepmeier’s name."

P.S. A gift from her brother, Trey, which Alison adored, was an oversized Chewbacca action figure.  Chewbacca was put in a place of honor in her bedroom while Alison was in hospice care.     

Alison loved Chewbacca and Star Wars.  And her movie boyfriend, Han Solo.

Alison, the Columnist

Alison's long and happy relationship with the Charleston City Paper is now coming to a close.  Thank you, Kinsey, for this lovely tribute.

The Announcement No One Wants to Write

This is Brian, with the post I never wanted to write.

Alison died peacefully this morning, as I kissed her and stroked her cheek.  Her parents and older brother were here and were able to say goodbye.

Arrangements will be announced at a later time.  Services for Alison will take place in Charleston.

I thank all those who have loved and cared for Alison and Maybelle over the years.  I am grateful to have been a part of the life of this beautiful, loving, talented woman who has forever transformed my life.

The Briefest of Guest Posts

This is Brian, in today for Alison.

Rachel Paula Abrahamson, senior parenting editor at Us Weekly, has written about Alison's Charleston City Paper column.

More on Endings, and Giving Thanks

Well, it's weird to be described as a journalist.  My apologies to those of you with real journalism degrees.  See the story at ABCNews.com.

As a reminder, folks, reading and typing aren't really my thing these days.  I can dictate some text and identify broad themes, but I am getting lots of editorial assistance.  Love you, Brian.  Thanks, Kelly.

Love, Loss, Sadness, Gratitude

And princess parties.  All covered in what may be my last column in the Charleston City Paper.

The City Paper has been great.

A Beautifully Mended Princess Leia

So many things have been challenging, as you all know.

Okay, the bad news is still the bad news.  If you have read this blog, you know my diagnosis.

Today, though, I want to celebrate something wonderful.  The Princess Leia coffee cup has been remade.

And here's the other side!

As I wrote in the Charleston City Paper, I have loved this cup for over a decade.  Now, I can love it again, as a work of art.  As an inspiration at a time when I can too easily feel broken.

This is a big deal.  This speaks to who I am and what I care about.

Yes, I have cancer. Yes, it sucks.  For today, though, I am inspired.

Brian's Postscript:

For this amazing and elegant work of kintsugi art, we have to thank the kind and talented folks at Lakeside Pottery in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.  Patty and Morty, the owners, have repaired and restored ancient and priceless pottery, but they quickly took on this project, for Alison's sake.  Thank you for this incredible work!

Alison and I nominate Lakeside Pottery as the very coolest business in Delaware.

Today, at Duke

I'm dying.  That's confirmed.  That's the bottom line for today's post.

Here's the longer version of this story.

I was at Duke University Medical Center today.  I've been getting brain tumor treatment at Duke for going on seven years.

These people at Duke are amazing, warm, caring, and very good at their jobs.  I love them all.

I went to Duke today to have an MRI and to talk with the team about what the MRI results mean for me.  I've assumed for the past few weeks that the news would not be good.

What's happened, so very dramatically, in the past few weeks?

• My speech is getting worse.  I say the wrong words pretty frequently.
• I have a hard time reading or typing anything on a computer screen.  Thank god for voice recognition software.
• Using my right hand has become increasingly difficult.
• My sense of balance is really bad.  I fall down very easily at some times during the day, and those times are difficult to predict.

These changes have been such a surprise.  I've never before experienced changes this quickly, as a result of the tumor.  My body is so very different than it was just a month ago.

As I've written before, I have already been told that I likely only have months to live.

After a day of driving, MRI scanning, waiting, and talking, here's what I learned that's new:

• My brain tumor is much bigger. The tumor is now in places it's never been before.  And, not surprisingly, my brain is swelling from all the tumor growth.  
• All of my symptoms are fully explained by the changes in the tumor.  

Over the past seven years, I have had two brain surgeries, a once-in-a-lifetime radiation treatment, every chemotherapy drug worth trying, and tumor-treating electrical fields.  I'm not a candidate for any clinical trials.

There are no treatment options left.  There's no reason to stay with the treatments I am now on, as they haven't been effective.

So, what comes next?

In a matter of months, I am going to die.  In three months to a year, I will be gone.

These words are hard to write, because I want to live.  I am sad -- sick to my stomach -- about my imminent death.  I've cried today.  I will cry tomorrow.  I can't imagine a day without tears any time soon.

I want to live for my daughter, my family, my husband, my friends.  I want to teach, to write, to try new things.

Most of all, I want to see my daughter grow up.

We can't know how long I will live, exactly, or how long I will be able to walk, talk, and write.

I will have more time to think this through over the coming weeks.  This is what I know:

I will have no more appointments at Duke.  These amazing, kind people can't do anything more for me.

I will spend my remaining time with the people I love.

It is about time for Maybelle to learn how to ride a real bicycle.  I'd like to see that happen this summer.

From now on, I am eating anything I damned well please.

I am extremely pleased that I am no longer going to have to wear electrodes, shave my head, and wear a backpack full of medical gear.  The Optune people are pleasant, but I am totally over having four electrical wires trailing behind me all the time.

I am so grateful for the people who have loved me, cared for me, fed me, send me messages of hope and support.


P.S. Brian helped me with this post.  Because I can no longer write anything this long without editorial assistance.  Which is really irritating, on top of everything else.

It's Our Weekend: Alison and Brian, Together

Hey, folks.  This is a co-authored blog post by Alison and Brian.  We are spending most of our weekend together in North Carolina.  Call it our honeymoon, if you’d like. 

From Alison:

You may have read my recent Charleston City Paper article.  Life is challenging. I feel hopeful, even now.  But I’ve also cried a lot.  A lot.

Spending the weekend with Brian, though, has been perfect.  It’s been exactly what I needed. 

So, Brian and I are in Flat Rock, North Carolina.  I’ve loved it.   

From Brian:

Alison and I have been at a slightly funky mountain resort near Asheville.  This place is quiet and beautiful, with rustic charm to spare. 

So, what’s here?

Walking paths?  Yup. 

An impressive waterfall?  Check. 

A lake, with boats and canoes for the guests?  Absolutely.

An albino peacock wandering the grounds?  Strangely, that’s also a “yes,” along with the goat farm and the organic garden.  Note: The organic garden isn’t really my thing.

The resort also has an outstanding restaurant.  Yum. 

Dating back to the nineteenth century, Charleston folks with names like Memminger, Aiken, and Rhett have been building homes and buying land here.  So, there is more than a little South Carolina flavor to this charming North Carolina town. 

Only my mother will care, but I will also acknowledge that my Reavis ancestors once lived in this part of North Carolina, before the Revolutionary War.  That’s your shout-out, Mom. 

It’s been wonderful getting away with Alison. Wonderful 

From Alison:

All right, people, it’s my turn. 

Walking is getting challenging, presumably because the brain tumor is changing.  My right leg doesn’t always do what I want it to.  The right arm also can be harder to control these days.

My body has changed quickly, in ways that can make a vacation harder to take.  While I still live a full and happy life with Brian and Maybelle, I am not exactly sure what I will be able to do from day to day. 

Despite the frustrations of an uncooperative body, it’s been incredibly rewarding to have this weekend time together. 

Our room is adorable!  It’s covered with wood paneling!  And I went canoeing for the first time in nearly 20 years! 

And, no one will believe this, but Brian actually knows his way around a canoe.  This is particularly important, because I did absolutely nothing to propel the canoe.  Go, Brian!

While Brian was getting life jackets and a paddle for the canoe adventure, I had the chance to sit by myself beside the lake, to hear the birds and insects. 

For just a few minutes, I got to be fully present.  I didn’t have to fight my body, or struggle to write an email, or worry about my next MRI. 

From Brian:

That’s it from North Carolina, folks! 

What a shattered coffee mug says about life

I'm in a difficult time.   Frightening.  Questioning.  Needing my community.

"Broken Pieces."

Conseula Francis

My dear, dear friend Conseula Francis.

What does it mean when someone--someone I know, someone I love--is gone? I don't believe it.  I'll see this picture of her and think, "Damn--she looks really good!  I'll tell her the next time I see her."  I'll sob, but, later, I think, "I need her feedback on my writing."  When I had the latest challenging experience with my own body, she offered for us to be have bagels and talk.  And now she's gone.

I can't believe it.  I can't see her as gone.  How does this happen?  How do I reconcile myself to a world she doesn't inhabit?  Is it fair for me to have those thoughts?  

I've been thinking all day about Conseula's death, but I don't need to share some of those thoughts.  Much of what I'm thinking is about myself, and I don't want to talk about my own issues today.

I want to speak with Conseula. Who is gone.  Who is no longer here.

Conseula was wonderfully fierce and pushy.  She was funny, even when she was pissed off.  Sometimes, especially when she was pissed off.  Conseula worried about her children and their future.  Even in the midst of her own problems, she always, always made time for her friends.

Ten years ago, Conseula and I left a meeting together.  The meeting was about tenure and promotion, and it left us sobbing and terrified.  So, we formed a writing group with Claire, and years of writing and research productivity followed.  All of us became full professors and the best of friends.

I love Conseula.  I already miss her deeply, terribly.  Someday I will comprehend that she is gone.  But not today.  Not yet.  

Marriage!

Saturday morning, Brian, Maybelle, and I went to a beautiful spot at the College of Charleston, near the Sottile House.  The place is filled with flowers and big live oaks.  And Brian and I got married.

Marriage!  Spouses!  Partners!

Maybelle and Brian are SO SWEET!

What the hell, right?  We're in love.  We live together.  We trade off about who has to get up with Maybelle in the night.  We share toothpaste.  And here we are:  married.

Holding each others' hands, getting married!

You get to see the entire gear here:  I have my hair
covered with cloth.  I have the Optune
electrodes covering my head and pushing
electricity into my brain.  The backpack is loaded with
batteries.  And I'm happy!

Although the idea surprised me, almost immediately l said, "Yes!  Let's do it!"  In my life these days, I never know exactly what's going to happen.  I'm beginning a list--the joy list--and Brian clearly belongs there.  Here we are:  we're both here and in love.

Everything has changed.

I'm writing because writing gives me a space, a space where I have a moment to reflect.  I sit here, four wires attached to the backpack attached to me.  My neck is starting to get sore because I don't want to have to shift these wires around.  Just stay here, pack of electronic cables.  I want to ignore, just for a time, what this means.

Oh, Optune. What does it mean to have this all the time?
What does it mean for who I am?

Sad.  I'm so sad.

I was able to be encouraging with Maybelle.  She's so curious about these changes, and she kept talking about my hair being gone.  She ultimately accepted it, although I woke her up as I was getting out of her bed.  She kissed me and went back to sleep.

Hair, phase 1

April 15, 2016:  Starting where I was and ending up where I am.

My last day with my hair.

Currently not all that curly, but still pretty filled with health.  Can I
embrace my new hair to look like my Dad's?

Things are happening very, very quickly here.  The last time I wrote a week ago, I talked about what I was doing next.  So here's the quick update:  on Friday, April 15, 2016--tomorrow--all my hair will be cut away.  And that's it--they aren't allowed to grow back.  Every couple of days, I'll have to shave it so that no hair can be there to keep my skin and blood from connecting with the Optune (here I'm showing a video of a guy with his Optune).

Oh, my hair.

Check it out!  MY FIRST YEAR AT CHARLESTON!  And Claire was
so cool that she went on a six-hour hair trip with me!  We're both so curled.
We look like cool sisters.  (Still the case.)

Catherine's hair looks different, as does mine.  I love my hair here. I love its
length, and its mild curls.  I love you, too, Catherine!

I have no idea where my Dad and I are (there seem to be
guns in the background!), but here we are:
my Dad makes a classical Lee Piepmeier scowl,
and my curly short hair.

So now I'm agreeing that it has gotten less hair.
I'm recovering from the radiation that took
some of my hair.

Maybelle's hair is straight.  Even when it's short, my hair is curly.  This
is a picture from two weeks ago.  Soon my hair won't look like this.