From then on, I was put in my place—still I watched Pattinson’s mane grow and evolve over the course of its few short years with us. At times it was a pompadour of restrained heights. At others, it was a finger-messed mop of prophetically tousled matter. In its last days it was quieter and more subdued, short and textured with an oily sheen of immortal glory. Of course, its days were numbered.
It’s funny—looking at a wild head like that you always had the feeling it might live fast and die young. Things that great never stick around. But that didn’t make its departure any less tragic or absurd. It’s been almost a week, but I can’t stop thinking of that image. Mangled and dismembered. Half-shaven like Rosie. Paraded around at fucking Comic-Con like a prize! No.
Still, we’ll always have that moment, crystallized in time, accessible through YouTube— that Twilight bastard exiting some four-door, hair styled as if by accident, every strand quivering in the wind, godlike, forever young.