Growing up my mom's hair always confused me. The tints of brown and blonde strands were always at war chasing each other away every season. Every winter the brownish tint would claim the throne and the blonde would steal it every summer. No matter the season it layed slick straight, so she would spend hours curling each strand only at the ends. Before I was born my sister was. My parents called her ShirleyTemple when she was younger because she had those perfect golden curly locks that would glimmer when the sun hit just right. Then I came and stole the curl winning crown from her head. Over time my sister started to lose her curl while mine continued to twirl tighter and tighter. I still never won in the blonde department but my sister started to lose that one too. As more and more years passed by her curls rolled out into waves and her bright blonde started to mix with a little brown. As for me; my curls stayed even when I wanted them to go. They stayed after years of straightening, bleach, and other dyes. My family loved my curls, though I still saw them as a brown untamable mess that fell a little past my shoulders. My family tells me I have hair like my dad. In high school my dad had curls that coiled into an afro that was colored dark brown like a rocky road. But now he cuts it short and says the curls are a thing in the past. I wonder when I can say the same.
Author Notes: In class our assignment was to make our own vignette about our families hair like in the book “The House on Mango Street”.