Weird

Court-appointed therapy doesn’t go quite the way Rapunzel thought it would.

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She doesn’t want to be here. That much is clear, even if all the rest lies in sealed packages. Her hair – her claim to fame, if the tales are to be believed – is still long, braided and folded and looped over and over again until she resembles some Star Wars queen, and it tells me something else: either she no longer cares what anyone thinks when they look at her, or she cares very much indeed.

So she sits down – we don’t do couches anymore – and looks me in the eye as though daring me to punch her in the nose.