"Disarray"
She'd always found his hair endearing – boyish, even. Nothing could keep it still. Each morning he'd try to coax it flat, and each morning, it would spring up again. So, every once in a while, Riza would take the comb from him and have him sit on the floor, before her perch on the edge of the bed. Then she would wet her hand on her tongue and run it through his hair; in its wake would follow the comb. Ultimately, her struggles were no more fruitful than his own: the restless strands, chastised for but a moment, would inevitably raise their heads, and he would lean back into her lap, nose wrinkled, and call her Mom. She would look at him sharply and raise an eyebrow until he reached up and pulled her down for a kiss.
But it was just as well: when he slicked his hair back, forcing it still with gels, it meant cruel things. Hair was calm for events of state. Hair was calm for funerals.
It was conflict between the childish and the adult, the irrepressible and the repressed – so when his hair fought against control, it meant that still, there was happiness to find. There were joys in store.
Besides – even when his hair was slicked back, still it fought the bonds of order. There was comfort in that.