hairs

Everybody in my family has different hair. My dad’s hair is a black ocean with white curly waves crashing down. And me, my hair is like a sheet of silk, brown and smooth. Cody’s hair is thick and crazy, partying all over his head. He would need a shower and comb to get it to look straight. Toyama’s hair is long, flexible, and straight. It is a mix of dark, light, and golden brown, like mine.

            But my moms hair, my moms hair, like little strings, like little strands of spaghetti, all straight and pretty because she brushes it every day, sweet to put your nose into when she is holding you. Holding you and making you feel safe, it is the sweet smell of tropical flowers early in the spring, is the smell when she makes room for you and the couch, still warm with her skin, and you sleep near her, just up the hall, the rain outside and dad snoring. The snoring, the rain, and moms hair that smells like tropical flowers.