All around me is hair, from being poofy like a cotton ball to being straight like a board. My mom’s hair short and either wavy or curly depending on what she did with it that day. The color of strawberries and oranges smashed together, I remember it feeling thin and wispy like raw wool being pulled apart. My Dad’s hair, although now thinning, is an incredibly dark brown even black looking in some light, with two patches of grey on the sides. His hair is always combed back like a greaser, but without the grease. Cole’s hair is straight and always combed off to one side. Kept perfectly parted to the side by him, fixed whenever he gets the chance, like a celebrity. It is the lightest of brown, the color just before blonde. Emma’s hair is a jet black like the back of a cobra. It is straight like wires and slightly falls over the right side of her head. Finally there is my hair. Poofy like a puff ball or the material inside of stuffed animals. A dark blonde as it slowly makes its journey to brown like my Dad’s. Curly and messy is its style. It cannot be controlled by anyone, besides my mother on special occasions. But even with all the trouble it causes me, I still love it.