After my mom got tired of blue hair, she colored it the shade of a drop of sunlight.
It was this bright, dandelion colored thing sitting on her head that made her stand out more than she already did. Like a sun, she somehow got everyone to revolve around her. She shared her light so brightly it hurt the eyes to look too closely. Her appearance was finally showing off the person she was, one bright shining thing in a mostly dim world.
When I was nineteen, I bleached my hair. Unlike the sunlight droplets that shine in my mother’s hair, my twine-like locs were only distracting everyone from the shadow I was beneath them. My hair was bright and reflective, but it had no light of its own.
I was never a sun. The color of my hair was only beautiful when I looked away from the pictures of my mom’s sun like hair and saw my hair for the gold it was.