Hair

Hair

Everyone in my family has different hair. My hair is thin, but shiny and bright. It is simple but straight. Almost no natural highlights adorn my coffee bean mane, but under the light, a murmur of red and honey gleam hides. It grows slowly but surely, like a tortoise lying in the summer sun. But it is soft like the wood of my jewelry box when I open it. I want curly hair. Hair that is interesting, and wavy. Don’t become a curler addict, I whisper to myself, as I set down the hot wand on the counter. A mist of soft hairspray envelops me, and it’s too late now.

My sister Isabel’s hair, is different. She doesn’t have the easy, straight locks I do. Hers are wavy and curly, almost like they were too busy to make up their mind. Her hair is a weed that won’t hold straight, and grows quickly. Her hair is much darker than mine, the color of rich molasses, sweet like the summer sun. When I tame her hair, she is a queen. The ringlet curls I form spin behind her, bounce and dangle, until the magic fades, and the frizz sets in.

My brother, Manuel’s hair is curly like a ribbon on a birthday present. It’s like golden sunshine, yellow and bright. Like soft butter, an egg yolk, or happiness. On particularly special days, his curls gather in the front, dangling above his eyes. Adorable child! I scream.

Different lengths and colors, black, blonde, brown. But we’re all the same really.