My fathers hair is thick like maple syrup, brown with flecks of grey here and there becoming more abundant as the days pass. My mothers hair is blonde, it has felt ware over the years, straightened, curled, cut, it has even felt the singe of a fire. My sisters hair has never known freedom, pulled into a ponytail every day, up, down, up, down, it knows no rest. My hair is just the opposite, rarely up for it pulls too hard, thick but untamed.

But my grandfathers hair, that is its own story, short but thicker than his skin. Its well kept, clean, combed, but as crazy as the maddest composer, crazy in its own like. When he plays the piano it dances as he shakes his head to the tune. Ghostly white it has turned over the years but thick as ever.