Black To Red Short Hair Novels & Stories

I said vaguely, hiding my smirk when Jen started to pout. "Well, I was working last night so I missed the girl talk. You can't hold that against me, Nea, I was bringing home the bacon," Jennifer complained as she crouched down. "Fine," I said with mock experation, "I'll give you the cliff notes." Jen kept her eyes on me as she waited expectantly. She had recently cut off her long black hair that matched mine and Suzanne's in length into a cute bob, and dyed it a bright red. It totally suited her.

When one eye was open, the other followed shortly, fully open as she sees herself with her new hair. Her hair is not too short but considering this is Anya Moore, aka the long-haired blondie popstar, this is the shortest and the darkest her hair has been. The other side of her head is shaved while the other is only up to her cheeks. Her hair is completely straight and black, with orange on the tips. “So?” Georgia asked. Anya stood up, still in shock. She turns to look at Georgia. “So?” She looks at me. “How do I look?!”

he said, almost reaching out with his hand to touch my hair to check if it was real but at the last moment he retracted back, making me laugh. “It’s real and this is still my hair," I said, pulling on a strand to show it to him.” Then moving a strand towards him I said, “Here you can touch the ends but don’t pull on it, it will hurt me.” Hesitantly he pinched the end of my hair and then looking back up at me he said, “It’s still a mystery how you do that. It was red just a second ago and now it's black. Oh but you still look pretty so you might get a few stares still.”

Paul Okeke sat near the office of the mission station, watching some English men leave and enter the building with lopsided gait. He was still admiring the structure of the station when he saw Anne Streamer walk past him. She was not wearing her French pleat like the first time he had seen her rather she allowed her hair to fall down and form long straight curls. Paul Okeke wondered why the hair color of English men and women were different unlike his fellow Igbo people who shared the same color of hair with him–black.

Don’t know what happened this time around. Slowly, he turns his head to look at me and I got a perfect display of what he looked like. A face with a strong jaw, clearly from someone that works out a lot. His face said something about someone who could be reserved and not be at the same time, and I think I like it that way. His black hair is as deep as my natural hair. Seeing his was making me envious and at the same time being considerate of changing it back to what I used to have. But I love the red, nevertheless.

His gaze flickered to my hair, and then he asked, "Have you always had black hair?" I nodded. "Yeah, I’ve never dyed it before." "Red would look great on you." I raised a brow. "So I can look like Melisandre for you?” He snickered, shaking his head. "That wasn’t my intention." He studied me for a second longer before saying, "I just think red would highlight your bold and feisty side." I let out a small laugh but didn’t respond. I liked my natural hair color and had no plans to change it.

He walks stiffly and opened the carriage door. Right in my very own eyes, a man came out from the carriage. As soon as his feet landed on the ground, I suddenly had the same reaction as the others. My body stiffened and my breathing hitched. The man was tall and tan. His hair was jet black. It was a bit messy but it looks soft. He was wearing a fitted black shirt and ripped jeans paired with brown boots. Then my eyes began to notice how his clothes perfectly hugged his well-toned body.

_ Mate looked so much better in our shirt," Mr. Wolf grumbled. Bianca had pulled her hair up into a french bun with the pins from the night before. However, she felt her hair fall to the small of her back as she reached for her shoes. She turned quickly. She raised both hands to hold her hair back and glanced at the floor to look for the pins that had escaped. Bianca hiccupped in surprise as she saw Black standing again, inches away from her. She looked at him from head to toe. Black was, as usual, dressed entirely in black. He was wearing perfectly pressed black cotton pants and his Italian leather shoes. Nevertheless, he had chosen a V-neck top with long cotton sleeves. He had rolled up th

I let out a short laugh. She was hilarious, fascinating, and cute. I guess that is why I have always liked her. She had always been shy and quiet, but now she was the complete opposite, and I liked that. She had long black hair in high school and wore glasses and braces. After high school, she didn’t talk to me for years, until recently, after the marriage had been finalized. I was shocked to see her. Her long black hair became a short red hair, which suited her and completely changed her look from the quiet nerd girl to the most popular girl. I guess the hair theory is real.

The street lamps began to crumble just like they had done the day of the accident, the earth crumbling as the ground quaked. “Seems you could use a little help, little vamparina.” A masculine voice resonated in the air. Vamparina? There he stood, along with my parents, his eyes red, his black dreadlocks running down along his face, his muscles big, merging perfectly with his physique, his perfectly chiseled jawline with a black cloak on. “Blood!” They groaned. “Back to the underworld.” He said as he raised his hands. The air stood still, flame engulfing the creatures in a minute. Groans filled the air as they began to disintegrate into soot, flowing along with the wind.