Novel & Cerita Dying Greasy Unwashed Hair

They will be the first to die when the hounds attack again. I adjust the clip holding my thick kinky brown hair, making the wayward strands half-conform once more. I've thought about cutting it a thousand times. A thousand times I resist. It's my one vanity. Running a brush through my hair at night grounds me. It's such a simple task even though keeping it clean and lice free isn't easy. I shiver at the thought of the small creepers that make so many shave their bodies. The new world sucks.

I sit up groggily with my hair all over the place. I need to pee. I walk to the bathroom. I sit I think about what happened. My mates a bit of a dick. He's cocky and arrogant and I don't like him. I thought after the first night he would be sweet and caring but no! I flip my head back so all my hair flies out of my face. I look in the mirror at my reflection while a wash my hands. I look like shit. The bags under my eyes look deathly black. My skin seems to ooze a grey glow. My hair hangs lifelessly and the grease sticks it to my scalp. I look like a Tim Burton character.

Aadhiyan came back home after the cremation, with water sweating from the Dhoti that's covering his lower part of the body. He shaved all his hair on his face and head as giving his final respect to their grandparents. Hair is considered as a pride of man and woman, but when someone dies in the family he/she has to let go of it as a sign of mourning but in Aadhiyan's family it's considered with much more meaning. It's a symbol that even if he's a king to the entire world he holds no pride in front of them and just a mere man who respects their elders from which they have come from.

nest of hair. It was absolutely the "thrashed my head against the pillow" because I'd had amazing sexy and nothing else over and over because nothing else mattered look. I smiled at my reflection. My skin seemed to glow and my hair, despite its disheveled state, was shiny. I looked healthy, not like somebody who was under stress and tension, and was juggling multiple jobs, and didn’t know about the state of her relationship. I didn’t look like somebody who was worried about her foster father, or her biological father, or a piece of land that should have been sold to a happy client, but the US government was still adamant they wanted to make into a cemetery.

“I’m already hungry and you just won’t woke up. Why are you so diligent on finishing that so lame thesis anyway when we’re still going to die someday?” Coming out from the bathroom after washing my face, I appreciated the beautiful scenery in the morning. His messy curly hair is all over his face, the bridge of his nose pointing proudly, with his jaw protruding manliness and masculinity, looking down on his sensual lips which he’s trying to wet right now, I cannot miss the thought that he’s such a waste. His genes would not spread, ‘coz just like me, his type is also a guy. Damn dude.

I wonder. People usually described ghosts to be ugly in their stories. With torn and worn out cloths. I seemed rather different. My black Heathens t-shirt, with which I died, was still new and clean. No blood stains. My black jeans and black trench coat was still crisp with newness. My hair was well combed.

Standing out never meant anything good. Lisa suddenly gasped. “Oh no. I’m dead. You’re dead. We’re all dead.” She rushed toward the bed, grabbed my wrist, and tugged me to my feet. “We only have an hour! You haven’t even showered, and your hair is, goddess have mercy, it needs a miracle.” “What’s wrong with my hair?” I frowned, free hand flying to the thick curls. It wasn’t perfect, sure. But it was healthy. I’d never had the heart to cut it. My one vanity.

I quickly stripped off and climbed into the almost scolding water, nervously watching the door as I didn’t know how long I would have alone; my heart thumping within my chest. I shook as I used a small yellow sponge to wash my blackened skin, scrubbing at the dirt until it fell into the water, I didn’t have any shampoo or body wash; supposing that was because they didn’t expect me to need it. Or perhaps they just didn’t care. I slipped under the water to wash my hair, the water darkening from the dirt that clung to me; my eyes tightly clenched shut.

Or be his next victim? I stood in front of the dressing table and was combing the tangles out of my hair. Ugh, I'm loosing a lot of hair because of all the stress. I think I'll go bald soon. I collected the hair from my comb and put it in the dustbin. "STOP!" I flinched and turned to him frightened as he screamed. He was staring at me wrinkling his nose. "Don't you dare do this here? How can you be soo unhygienic!"

They clattered against the pile of her old life. Then, she mixed the dye. The chemical stench filled the kitchen, sharp and toxic, the smell of her rebirth. She put on the plastic gloves and, with the same frantic, brutal energy, she worked the cold, black sludge into her remaining hair. She scrubbed it into her scalp, her nails digging in, the dye staining her skin, her neck, the old towel. She was erasing herself. She waited forty-five minutes, shivering in the cold kitchen, the dye dripping, a crown of black tar.