You can tell a lot about my family from their hair. My father’s hair is soft and thick, each strand stuck straight up, like standing at attention. Adam’s hair is smooth and dark, like the brush I use for my watercolors. He looks much older than ten when he combs it. My Hair is long. It runs down my back like a heard of gazelles, darting wildly in golden zig-zags. Momma’s hair is like branches dipping down from a tree; not crunchy, but naturally flowing. Its color looks like the cream spreading through the coffee she drinks every morning.

But Caroline’s hair is like a gold ocean cascading past her shoulders. Swirling and twisting into vibrant, foaming waves. Her hair is thick and soft and slips like wet soap through my fingers. It is a mane when she is strong like a lion, and it is lace when she wraps her hair with braided sorrow. Caroline’s hair is alive on her head, and consumes whomever she hugs. Her hair dances with freedom and hope for the future. It smells like late night walks and the loud music she plays when she drives. Like youth.