Everyone in my family has different hair. We all have different colors and different styles. My dad’s hair is black like the night, with few unnoticeable grays. It is always combed neatly to the side. With every passing year, it begins to thin more and more. The bald spot on the top continually grows. My mother has blonde hair. The length of it fluctuates in her endless search for the perfect style. Every few weeks, her dark roots disappear within a matter of minutes. My brother’s hair has wings. It sticks out right above his ears almost as if it is preparing to lift him off into the sky. His blonde hair becomes increasingly darker with each passing day. My sister has beautiful hair, dark and flowing. Not one hair would ever be found out of place. It is thick, with just enough body.
My hair is a different story. It never looks the same two days in a row. Growing up, my hair was stick-straight. It was boring and predictable. I would long for something other than the dreariness that I had been given. I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but my straight hair suddenly vanished. It became an unmanageable mess. My hair is defiant, rejecting any band or pin I try to put in it. It curls and twills in every way possible. My hair is like a tree, changing color with every season. In the winter it darkens to a natural toned brown. As summer arrives, it lightens to a brilliant blonde. It constantly changes, never staying the same for too long. As annoying as it may be, my hair fits my personality, my mood, my style. It fits me.