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Hairs

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No one in my family bears the same hair. My brother’s hair is shaggy, sponged full of grease. My mother’s hair is like a wig, cleverly colored. My sister’s hair is full and fashionable. My hair is petite, cut precariously with the Flowbee. Only cut, never combed. From shower to silk, my friends say my hair is the softest.


But my dad’s hair, my dad’s hair, slicked back, like a greaser from the 1950s, never wanted to put my nose to it, like a mix of gel, Just for Men’s, and fatherhood, like the redundant rows of corn, riddling the once barren field, representing all the people it will help, all the people it will feed, all the animals it will hide, and once harvested, it will regrow.






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