Streaked Blonde Hair Novels & Stories

Maybe a rebellious twin of mine or something. “Now you're going to act like you're seeing this for the first time, right?” Jade scoffed, clearly still angry about the idea that I did all this behind her back. I ran my hands through my hair to be sure I wasn't seeing things. But it was true. My hair was indeed blue. Like the color of the sky. There were streaks of white also, but most part of it was blue. I ran my hands down my face, hoping against hope that that action would wake me up from whatever dream or trance I was in, but the more I did it the clearer it became…my hair was indeed blue.

I look at Sloane, then back at Luna Samara again and that’s when it clicks. My mate now has a white streak in her hair. It’s the same streak that Luna Samara has in hers. My mate got her white wolf.

Kandy “I hate it.” I stared at myself in the mirror like I was looking at a stranger wearing my skin. The blonde was gone. Months of expensive bleach, curling irons, extensions, and upkeep had vanished beneath sleek black hair that fell smooth and straight past my shoulders. Thick bangs framed my eyes now while two deep crimson pieces cut through the dark near the front like streaks of blood. Cassandra stood behind me with a flat iron in one hand and absolutely no sympathy on her face.

The white streaks in my hair glimmered faintly, a reminder I couldn’t shake. Somewhere out there, a blonde woman was laughing at us. And I would find her. Even if it meant burning the world down.

Eric paused and raked a hand through his crazy hair. For some inexplicable reason she wanted to run her fingers through it too. Like a work of art, Eric Stick’s hair demanded attention. It was long on one side—something to hold on to. The other half was sheared off short. She imagined it would feel soft and silky beneath her fingertips. A row of inch-long spikes ran from forehead to nape, separating long locks from short fuzz. It was shiny and ebony except for the long lock that curled around his throat and hung down to his left collarbone. By some strange coincidence it was dyed the same blue she’d chosen to dye hers—for the sole purpose of ticking off her mother—not a week ago.

It was sleeveless and her hair was loose but it was completely straight. "Of course I do" I get out of the window and go to the mirror. My blonde hair was completely straight, it looked so different because most of the time it's a mess. I noticed that my hair had streaks of white that were unremarkable. And that seemed strange to me. Am I turning gray so fast? God, I'll die young. She had opted for a long pastel pink dress, it had straps that had some sparkles, perhaps pearls. My heels were quite nice transparent sandals. But with the long dress they weren't noticeable. "It's not here yet," I tell them.

I looked at the spot he was touching; there were indeed a few barely noticeable streaks of blonde, almost white, woven through my dark hair. “So did I,” I replied softly, wondering how I could have missed such a strange detail about myself.

I grab a piece of bread, but before I can take a bite, Priscilla’s gaze sharpens, fixating on my hair. “Hold still,” she murmurs, stepping closer. Before I can react, she gently plucks a strand from my head and holds it up. “What?” I ask, confused. She twirls the strand between her fingers, her brows furrowing. “You’ve got a white streak coming in.” I freeze. “What?” She holds it out for me to see. It’s unmistakable—a stark silver strand mixed among my blonde locks. "There's more...it's concentrated in the areas above your left ear."

He should love you as you are, Skinny said a lifetime ago. She shook her head. Squeezed her eyes closed. “No, no, no.” Gripped and sawed her hair. “He doesn’t. He wanted brown.” Pulled and parted and sliced. “He chose brown.” Chopped the platinum free, letting it fall to her shoulders. “That’s an answer right there. Brown not blonde.” Hair fluttered to land at her knees, peroxide strands littering the stranger’s wide knees and pudgy feet. Soon her palm raced over a bare scalp, fingertips discovering jagged and peeling nicks she never felt. Slick, bleeding cuts she failed to notice. The blade returned, the spit in her hand wetting the remaining tufts as she shaved close.

I quickly take a shower and change. I put on a black and red tank top (to match my hair. Like Knox having blue tips in his silver hair, I end up having red streaks in my black hair. It's totally wicked! And believe it or not, we were born like that.) and a pair of cut offs and my sneakers. I run a brush through my hair and put it up in a sloppy pony. I'm not impressing anyone, and I really don't give a damn about what I look like this morning. I'm too freaking tired to care!