You appear in the lunchroom, wearing a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans. In a week, I have the same jeans. On school picture day, I see you have frosted the tips of your hair. I go with my mother to the hair salon. A man named Marcus trims my hair, streaks it blond, presses it between sheets of tinfoil and sits me down so it can set. I read an issue of GQ and take note of the advertisements. The men I wish to imitate wear suits and cologne. They are flanked by beautiful women, each of them running their hands through the man’s hair though he is greasy with gel. I am always an imperfect copy. When I see you in the lunchroom the next day, your frosted tips are gone and I look like an asshole. For years, all my family knows about me is that once, I asked for a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans. I get a pair every Christmas, though you dress yourself in the latest style.