Hair Vignette

(Written by Jon Agard, age thirteen)

Everybody in our family has different hair. My Papa's hair, laid down in the back, with the front hair no longer present from the many years of accomplishments and wisdom. He no longer feels the need for the strict, straight parts of the past, and he is getting rid of the loose hairs that hold within them appreciation, passion, and the occasional break of barriers and rules for the sake of fun, love, forgiveness, and understanding for the cruel, yet unmistakably harsh beauty of the world and its mysteries.

My Mama's hair, on the other hand, shows no image of mystery. My mother's hair shows her love through the absence of presumed care. It shows just how much time for herself and pleasantries of herself: Zero months, zero weeks, zero days, zero minutes, zero seconds. All that time is a gift to everyone else, which we take ungratefully.

My brother Greg's hair always seems to be changing. The best way I can explain it is that his hair - like his personality - is a chameleon. Changing his appearance constantly, changing the way he looks, but always the same underneath everything. It will always be his own.

Sara, the youngest child, has hair no one else in a 100 mile diameter has. Her hair is thick and brave, not scared to be so different, the way it is so large, poofy, and odd to her single-minded peers. The way she can't stand to be complimented, and always complains about her appearance, is so odd. Her hair is beautiful!

And mine, mine is simplicity in itself! The hairs, sprouting from the top of my scalp, are nothing more, nothing less than hairs sprouting from the top of my scalp. My hair reflects not a thing from my soul, and is kept that way on purpose.

I guess, to the individuals who have too much time on their hands, that would mean I keep solitude and quiet to myself, but no, my hair means nothing in particular. If you want to know what does, in more ways than one, show my personality, it is my writing. The scratchings of pencil and paper. Writing is the only way my soul can tell its story.