Gentle hair that tumbled in such rich autumnal hues, was the restful visual poetry of my soul, for that is how she was upon the day we fell in love.
If the origins of her hair were the black heavens, if the divine universe were woven into such buoyant threads and placed upon her head, it would explain so very much.
Hair sits in neat yet wild waves upon her dreaming head, for beneath it all is an ocean of creative conjuring.
The soft curls fell in cinnamon swirls to a face that was as sweet as a white chocolate button.
When the grey roots of mama's hair began to show, she took to wearing a vibrant headscarf. She looked beautiful every day, the breeze billowing the ends of the long silk as if they were the ribbons of a kite.
Sarah's hair moved much as soft beach grass in the wind, back and forth, revealing and hiding the gold of her eyes.
One hand scrunched into that tumble of hair, those curls that defied rules and gravity with equal contempt. As she pondered, that great brain of hers solving problems that had defied geniuses for all our age and more, she'd never been more beautiful... my philosopher...
If a beam of light could weave itself into a strand, that was her hair; I always felt it glowed from within rather than relying on the sunshine. It was as if the universe had conjured her matter in a ripple of laughter - as if all she was composed of was a sort of musical and loving happiness.
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