My mother’s hair is short with age and motherhood. She has long since coloured it from grey to brown. Her hair must be painstakingly curled atop her head each day, like a crown, a symbol of her power in the household.

My father’s hair is grey, like smoke. I can’t remember the brown hair he had in years gone by. I’ve only seen its pre-hard work ravaged colour in photos.

My brother’s hair was once his signature. His mane was lush and long with teenage rebellion. It has since been tamed by military discipline and acquired family values.

My hair, a contradictory blonde, is short and spunky. Although it is cursed to be stark straight, it is creatively cropped. My hair is congruent to my incongruent personality.

My sister’s hair is special. Soft like a kitten’s coat and short like a 1920’s flapper. Also a family-gene-defying blonde, her hair compliments her bright, blue eyes. It covers her ears to guard her hard fought for optimism. But the most important part of my sister’s hair is her Superman Curl. Her wavy bangs rebell to form a perfect Clark Kent Curl. It stands out from the rest of her mane, much like my sister does her best to defy my family’s not-so-shining examples. My sister’s hair is mature and refined, but her Superman Curl is untamed, fun, and bright. As the middle child, my sister has longed to stand out and her Superman Curl does that for her.