The long white spikes dig in and pull at the tight curls. Every time the brush goes through I scream, aware that my father might come in and tell me to be quiet. Bunday. That’s what I call it, “the weekly torture fest” when my mother wrestles with my unruly hair, tugging and wrangling it atop my head into a perfect ballet bun. So I can fall in line, dance for a mirror and learn Grace and Control.