My family has an abnormal array of hairs, not one head of hair is remotely similar in feature or form. My younger brother Bryce has hair that is swiftly shuffled in the wind, as a fish follows the current. It is bright and gold, shimmering and shining in the sun, like a peacock shows its feathers.  My hair is a drab color, not quite sure if it wants to be brown or blonde. It sits on my head like a soft mat requiring a multitude of motion to undo the stringy strands, it calmly sits.

My father’s hair however, it sends a message via messenger pigeon. His dark plume lies, no... stands on his head like a commanding sheriff coming to clean up the town. The way it looks forward and stares people down, covered in peppery specks of age and persistence. It is the mane of an old lion, calm enough to pet yet not unable to strike. It is the top of a mountain that tiny goblins die trying to scale. His hair is the Monarchic crown of our kingdom. It sends a message, not by email but by smoke signals.