Its a blazing hot summer afternoon in 2000. I am 16, getting my hair braided by my friends older sister from high school. Were sitting in the sunroom of a semi-detached home in the northwest corner of Scarborough. She combs through my Indian mane, smoking a spliff in between hair sections and tending to her two-year-old, as we bop our heads to a Mary J. Blige track in the background.

You have a lot of hair, she remarks, as two hours turn into four. I pay her $25 and keep the braids for a month. At school, the braids are a hit in the hallways paired with my Rocawear jumpsuit, which I later used to dress up as Flavor Flav for Halloween.