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There once was a boy with a curl,
right on the side of his forehead.
And when he was good, he was very, very good.
And when he was bad, he was torrid.
I could leave it there, but let’s discuss that wayward curl resting gently against Henry Cavill’s brow.
I want that curl to write me poetry, to compare me to a summer’s day, to tell me I walk in beauty. I want that curl to take a stand and walk into my father’s study and ask for my hand.
This is getting weird, but in my defense, look at it:
Curling just so as it artfully rests, a willful lock felled from the rest of the coif. It dips slightly into his eye line, breaking up what would probably be too intense of a stare, I’m sure.
Now I’m retroactively angry at The Tudors for keeping this curl away from us byway of too-short-hair. We get the briefest hint of what it could be in The Count of Monte Cristo but it was not yet what it would become.
Not even Superman’s infamous curl could compare to the Holmesian version of it, sorry to say.
No, no we have achieved forehead curl perfection in Enola Holmes and I, for one, welcome the forehead curl supreme.