My family, their hair is like a Hershey's kiss, brown and sweet, gentle and full of care. Ashley’s is silky smooth, straight and silent, flowing like a chocolate river on a calm summer day. In her hair, curls never stay, always sticking straight. Dad’s is nearly gone-- little bits flattened on the sides, with a bald section right at the top, often shimmering in the sun’s shine. I see him trimming fragile hairs that to us are not even there, perhaps living in the past when his head wasn’t bared. My mother, my mother rejects her hair, spraying graying spots with her portable can, evidence streaked across the roof of her car. My mother’s endless cans litter the bathroom drawers, the scent of sickly sweet chemicals sticking to the floor. Rough to the touch when treated and sprayed, but soft when it’s bare and no longer she cares. Oh how strange is my mother’s hair. But my hair, it’s different from the rest.

My hair is not sweet, more like a mighty beast, strong and full of life, but unable to tame. My hair is not delicately pampered and plush, it flings out to the side and only receives a single brush. My hair is envied by my family and often sought out, little do they know about the split ends hidden throughout. Everyday is a struggle, a battle with the beast, I never seem to win, my fight with my hair will never cease.