Personal Narrative: My Hair

My hair is force to be reckoned with. Its cascading fury flurries around everything, my shoulders, my back, the chair that catches it in its unwavering maw. It’s strong, it lasts through any torture I force upon it. It falls out in clumps and chunks when I tug and pull too much, but mom says that’s normal because my hair is so thick. I have the fullest head of hair in the family, she likes to tease. She’ll affectionately twirl it between her fingers and create little ringlets that fall down and tickle my chin because I didn’t pull it up into a messy ponytail.
People love to run a comb through my hair and tell me it looks so beautiful, they wish they had that color. I know that it won’t last. Because dad will run a hand through his hair and