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.
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