I’m nine and my hair is straight. So is my brother’s. My mom always says she wishes one of us inherited her beautiful dark coils, unfortunately, my father’s stringy blonde hair prevented that.
Doing my hair in the morning is easy. I just brush it quickly and I’m on my way. No knots, waves, or layers. Simple. I’m 9 and I like American Girl Dolls and Freewrite Fridays, even though sometimes when I write, my mind moves faster than my hand. This results in an explosion on paper, but I always get an A.
The popular boy told me he had a crush on me today during recess. I have a crush on him too I think. I couldn’t tell you why though.
I’m 11 and I don’t know what’s happening to my hair. Every time I brush the once stick-straight mane, I begin to resemble a Truffula Tree. So, I’ve been putting my hair in a side ponytail to contain it, which my mom refers to as “very 80s.” I’m 11 and I like Brandy Melville and Shawn Mendes, just like all of the other girls in class. The popular boy is annoying and I want to be exactly like Santana from Glee. She’s just so pretty.
I’m 13 and my hair is fried. The consequences of straightening it every day have caught up to me. Now that I’ll be trapped in my house for two weeks I can finally give my hair a break from the heat, no one will see me after all. My hair isn’t tightly spiraled but isn’t pin straight either. The closest match to my hair that I found was none other than Robert Plant. However, a thirteen-year-old girl who is miles deep in the closet has no aspiration to be “twinning” with a flamboyant classic rock singer from the 1970s.
I’m 13 and I had my first talking stage with a boy. He was annoying. I blocked him after a week.
Since there’s no school I’ve been staying up until 2 a.m. every night! Pretty rebellious, I know. Our congested house now has a permanent scent of artificial coffee, tracing our kitchen walls every morning when I make that trendy whipped coffee recipe. It’s gross.
I’m 15 and my hair is black…well, a patchy black. I haven’t straightened it in a while and it’s grown out to my lower back. My heat-damaged locks have spun into medium-sized curls and I can almost hear my Jewish ancestors applauding me from the dead. I came out to my friends as bi or queer or something, but my parents still don’t know. I don’t like the concept of coming out, but I wish my mom would ask me if there were any cute girls at school, and not just guys. I dated a boy and now I hate him. There’s nothing more to say about him really. I’m 15 and I like Bikini Kill. I love them actually. Kathleen Hanna’s feminist-infused lyrics and scratchy tone echo in my sophomore mind constantly, I can’t wait to see them in concert this summer
I’m 17 and I still love freewriting, but not just on Fridays. I’m out to both of my parents and have dated two other boys that I now hate. I’ve seen Bikini Kill in concert twice now, once in New York, and once in Philly. I’m 17 and my hair is littered with some curls and some waves. I found a special cream that enhances the texture of my hair, once suppressed from the heat of my flat iron. Last week I got my hair cut shorter, and the inspiration photo I showed my hairdresser was none other than Robert Plant. Now we’re basically twins.
