Hair is long and blonde and wavy. It curls up like a group of butterflies fluttering away when you stick your fat index finger at them. Hair is so many shades of gold it makes the crown of the Queen of England look brown.

My hair is straight and dark. My hair is the silent predator creeping up to the fluffy princess. It diffuses into the night, leaving a pale face with no protection from the defenseless dark.

My mom’s hair is dark, too. It forms loose curls like waves in the ocean rising and sinking. It is rough because of the grayness underneath the dye. My dad only has a coating of dark fluff left on his head. But my brother has perfect hair, except for the color. It is chestnut brown and silky and forms into ringlets big enough to put your finger through. But my hair lingers behind, twisting into no lively twirls or even sunken waves. My hair is long and it doesn’t stop until it bends at the end. If you climbed up my hair, like Rapunzels prince, you would fall. My hair is not princess hair.

Normal hair is gold, dipping and spinning into pools of sugary milk chocolate and looping through liquid goldleaf. Normal hair has ringlets that are flung over heads and into ponytails. Bent to the side and lying over itself to show off its multitude of colors. My hair looks on with jealousy.

White pillows and blankets make my hair even darker. But the sun breaking through the rainclouds on a Sunday morning makes my hair look shiny. My hair is not golden or bent into silky corkscrews, but my hair is cozy. My hair is soft and comfortable. My hair is home.