Thick Hair
Sophia
Thick hair. Everyone in my family has it. Both a blessing and a curse. Daddy’s hair is like a feather. The daily dose of “product” makes the graying brown hair take flight and look perfect the rest of the day.
Max, he has adorable brown little-boy curls when at a certain length, but the back always looks like a thorny jungle. Like someone put a straight iron to it when it was not fully brushed, or held it for too long and made it frizz. Mom says it’s because of gel. I say it’s because he sleeps on it. He doesn’t care.
Mamma has beautiful hair, curly and red, like fire. Crazy, wild, and long, yet she manages to control it. She puts it up with a hair stick or leaves it down. It is so very unlike mine, but I am the one who has the hair closest to hers.
Wavy in the front and curly in the back, my hair is the boss of me. The brown-blond mass of messy curls will not listen to the harsh voice of hair spray, or the strict unyielding tone of gel. It looks the way it wants; I can only choose how to wear it, in a messy bun, braids, or down. Though I like my hair, I want easier-to-control hair. I want my sister’s.
Maddie says she doesn’t like her hair and wants to trade with me, but I like it. She can roll out of bed in the morning with out it look like a horrible beast is attacking her head. It listens to her when she wants it strait, curly, wavy, or any other way she wills it to look.
Unlike me, she owns her hair. Dyed black on the bottom and hennaed on the top, Maddie’s hair is amazing, but she doesn’t think it. She sees it as a lack of volume, where I see it as just enough volume. She sees it as too short were I see it as the perfect length for wearing it down, in a ponytail, messy bun, or to be left alone. She doesn’t want her hair. She wants mine.
Sophia
Thick hair. Everyone in my family has it. Both a blessing and a curse. Daddy’s hair is like a feather. The daily dose of “product” makes the graying brown hair take flight and look perfect the rest of the day.
Max, he has adorable brown little-boy curls when at a certain length, but the back always looks like a thorny jungle. Like someone put a straight iron to it when it was not fully brushed, or held it for too long and made it frizz. Mom says it’s because of gel. I say it’s because he sleeps on it. He doesn’t care.
Mamma has beautiful hair, curly and red, like fire. Crazy, wild, and long, yet she manages to control it. She puts it up with a hair stick or leaves it down. It is so very unlike mine, but I am the one who has the hair closest to hers.
Wavy in the front and curly in the back, my hair is the boss of me. The brown-blond mass of messy curls will not listen to the harsh voice of hair spray, or the strict unyielding tone of gel. It looks the way it wants; I can only choose how to wear it, in a messy bun, braids, or down. Though I like my hair, I want easier-to-control hair. I want my sister’s.
Maddie says she doesn’t like her hair and wants to trade with me, but I like it. She can roll out of bed in the morning with out it look like a horrible beast is attacking her head. It listens to her when she wants it strait, curly, wavy, or any other way she wills it to look.
Unlike me, she owns her hair. Dyed black on the bottom and hennaed on the top, Maddie’s hair is amazing, but she doesn’t think it. She sees it as a lack of volume, where I see it as just enough volume. She sees it as too short were I see it as the perfect length for wearing it down, in a ponytail, messy bun, or to be left alone. She doesn’t want her hair. She wants mine.
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