The summer gym air smelled like cinnamon and ripe bananas, and Lila was kneeling on the mat, helping Mia fix her gymnastic grip. Her purple ribbon had come loose, and her black curly hair had fallen out of its ponytail, cascading over her shoulders in soft, wild ringlets. When she laughed at something Mia said, the curls bounced—catching the sunlight streaming through the windows like tiny pieces of dark gold. I paused mid-sketch, my pencil hovering over the page, and thought: Looks with her Curly… she’s never looked more beautiful.
Mia had just finished decorating her banana muffin—smothered in banana sauce, with a chocolate chip smile—when she held it up to Lila. “Coach, try it!” she said. Lila took a bite, and a dollop of banana sauce landed right in her curls. Mia giggled, and Lila mock-gasped, wiping at the sauce with a napkin. “Hey, my curls are not a muffin topping!” she said, but her eyes were laughing. I walked over, my sketchbook in hand, and gently pulled a strand of her curly hair free from the sticky sauce. “You’re gonna have banana-scented curls all day,” I said, grinning. She leaned into my touch, her curls soft against my fingers. “Worth it,” she said, “if it makes the kids laugh.”
After the kids left, we sat on the old wooden bench, the blue pot with the banana plant beside us. Lila pulled the purple ribbon from her hair, letting her curls fall free, and leaned back, closing her eyes. The sun hit her face, and her curls glowed, framing her like a halo. “I used to hate these curls,” she said, surprising me. “When I was a kid, they’d get so frizzy during practice—my grandma would have to braid them for me every morning. She said they were ‘my superpower,’ but I just thought they were messy.” I took her hand, running my thumb over her knuckles. “They’re not messy,” I said. “They’re you. Wild, and soft, and perfect.” She opened her eyes, smiling, and I leaned in, kissing a curl that had fallen over her cheek. It tasted like banana sauce and sunshine.
That weekend, we took the banana plant to the park for a picnic, along with Lila’s grandma’s old photo album. She flipped to a page with a photo of her 10-year-old self—standing in a white leotard, her curly hair in two braids, holding a banana muffin. “Grandma braided my curls that day,” she said, tracing the photo. “It was my first gymnastics competition. I fell off the beam, but she said, ‘At least your curls looked amazing.’” I laughed, wrapping my arm around her. “She was right,” I said. “Your curls have always been amazing. Even when they’re covered in banana sauce.” She leaned her head on my shoulder, and we watched the sunset, her curls blowing in the breeze.
A few days later, I brought a new sketch to the gym—a drawing of Lila, her curly hair loose, holding the banana plant, with the blue gym walls behind her. I taped it next to our summer pose sketch, and when Lila saw it, she teared up. “You drew my curls so… soft,” she said, her voice quiet. I hugged her, my hands in her hair—soft, curly, still a little banana-scented. “Because they are soft,” I said. “Just like you.” That afternoon, the kids crowded around the sketch, pointing at Lila’s curls. “Coach Lila’s hair looks like a cloud!” Mia said, and Lila laughed, tousling Mia’s hair. “Maybe it is,” she said. “A banana-scented cloud.”
On the last day of summer, we had a “Curly Hair & Bananas” party at the gym. The kids brought hair clips and ribbons, and we helped them style each other’s hair—Mia’s straight hair in pigtails, Jake’s short hair with a tiny purple ribbon, Lila’s curls in a half-up style with a banana-shaped clip. We ate banana muffins, took photos, and danced to Lila’s grandma’s old music. When the sun started to set, Lila and I stood by the window, her curls in my hands, watching the kids play. “Looks with her Curly,” I whispered, kissing her. She smiled, her curls brushing my face. “Looks with your eyes,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”
That night, we sat on the old wooden bench, the banana plant now thriving beside us, and shared a banana split. Lila’s curls were still loose, and when she took a bite of ice cream, a little hot fudge landed in her hair. “Oops,” she said, laughing. I wiped it away, my fingers lingering in her curls. “I love your curls,” I said. “I love you—messy, curly, banana-scented, and all.” She kissed me, sweet and sticky, and the gym’s blue walls glowed in the dim light.
Love isn’t about perfect hair or perfect moments. It’s about messy curls covered in banana sauce, about old photos and grandma’s jokes, about the way someone’s hair feels in your hands when you’re watching the sunset. It’s about Lila—her curly hair, her kind heart, her love for kids and bananas and me. It’s about looks with her Curly, and the way those curls wrapped around my heart, and never let go.
Because when you love someone, their messy, curly, banana-scented self is the most perfect thing in the world. And I’ll spend forever telling Lila that—one curl, one smile, one banana muffin at a time.
