My Small Hairs: My Small Hairs

     My small hairs stick up on my head after I get out of bed. Brush Brush Brush it down. Spraying the stickiest conditioner on. Hair is high maitenance, says mom.

     When I swim my goggles knot up. Hours. Two hours. That's how long it will take to detangle the think, matted mess in the back of my head. My eyes tear up when my mom sticks the big, spiky brush through my tangles.

      My hair used to be huge. Then it was donated to a cancer organization. Hair can be turned into a wig, I discovered.

      Years Spent 5 years trying to grow it back to become a princess again. (halfway in I realized I didin't want to be a princess). Used to nearly cry when I had to cut it. Now I don't.

      My hair is something to be proud of. I am able to change it over and over again, if it fits. Fits on the outside of me, and also the inside of me.

      Change change change. Change can be a good thing. Sometimes I put my hair up with a ponytail and flip it. (To look short). I'd like to tie it with a headband and keep it that way for the rest of my life.

     Now, I sitll brush my sticky hair with sticky conditioner. I still tie my hair up and pretend it's short and me. I like to pretend I look like someone else. I like to pretend I am someone else. But...my small hairs weren't short, my small hairs were long. And they still are.