A woman styles another person's hair into Princess Leia buns in a kitchen.

Carrie wasn't your average 19-year-old boy from Hurricane, Utah. For starters, his name was Carrie. Born on May 4th, 1987, it felt almost preordained, a cosmic wink from the universe on Star Wars Day. And then there was his hair – long, dark, incredibly thick, and almost always styled in two perfectly sculpted Princess Leia buns, sitting like glossy cinnamon rolls on either side of his head. It was his mother, Sarah, who performed the ritual. Every morning, in the soft glow of their sun-drenched kitchen, Carrie would sit patiently on a stool while Sarah, with a practiced gentleness that belied the firmness of her grip, would section, twist, and coil his long locks. She’d known since he was a toddler that her son saw beauty in a way most others didn't. When he was four, he’d wrapped a dish towel around his head and declared himself a "pretty princess," and Sarah had just smiled and helped him find a more suitable scarf. As he grew older, Carrie’s features refined into something strikingly familiar. His cheekbones were high and defined, his large, expressive eyes a deep, intelligent brown, and his lips full and naturally a soft rose. His jawline, though male, possessed a subtle curve, and his overall build was slender, almost ethereal. When he styled his hair, especially in those iconic buns, the resemblance to Carrie Fisher at 19 was uncanny – not just a passing similarity, but an almost startling echo, right down to the hint of mischief in his gaze. "There," Sarah would say, See more