Another spritz from the hairspray bottle left a fine mist covering everything in the bathroom. Everything, it seemed, except the flyaways that insisted on doing their own thing, refusing to fall in line with the rest of her mane.
For years, she envied the girls she grew up with-their long blond locks, falling pin straight down their backs. She used to roll her eyes when they complained how hard it was to style.
"They have no idea," she would think.
She had tried to iron out her curls, spending money she didn't have on expensive products and tools, only to watch her curls creep back in before the day was done.
Now, she tried to embrace her curls, if only because she finally realized they weren't going anywhere.
Her mother always told her they made her unique-her curly hair was different, she stood out from the crowd. The dark, deep brown was mysterious. But what if she didn't want to stand out? Couldn't she once just blend in, fit right in line with the rest? Between her hair, her height and her hips, she knew she would never look like them-but it didn't stop her from wishing.
She flipped her hair over and scrunched her curls some more-adding more product and hoping they would keep everything where it was supposed to be.
She flipped her head back and examined herself in the mirror.
"Hmm..." she thought, "not too bad."
She flipped the light and walked out of the bathroom, laughing to herself. "Let's see how long it lasts."
This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-Hair-So many of us have a love-hate relationship with it. For some of us, it’s our defining feature. Whatever it means to you – or to your characters – we want to know about it. But we don’t want you to simply describe it. We want you to use it as a vehicle to tell us something about your character, a situation, you or your life