By Leslie Konyndyk

Hair, straight, long, short, wavy, curly, red, brown, blond…hair. It tells a lot about the person who owns it. It tells about their personality. How long they keep it. How they style it. How they change it. It tells about them.

My hair, it was shorter, but not too short. A natural golden blond color. With a tint of natural red hidden within. Rarely brushed. It never needed it anyway. The hair had a natural, soft curl that would fly in the breeze. When it did, if you listened close enough, you could hear a soft sharp whistle. As soon as the wind grew clam, the hair would go right back to its place, where it had begun.

This hair was the hair of a beautiful blond. Confident. Who got all the boys. The hair of a beauty queen. Not for a little girl like me. I am not that. I am not the girl with the blond beauty. Nor am I the girl who gets noticed, and who’s interested in flowers and pink. No. I am not that.

My hair. It fits the girl I am a little bit better now. Straight. A beautiful brown-red. Nearly black. My hair. Thoroughly brushed. With a soft airy kind of texture. Always down. It hides me away from the world. Keeps me in my place. This hair, my hair, is the hair for a little girl like me.