Braid my hair, my sister’s hair, my Barbie’s hair. French braid. French bread. Bread. Food. Delicious food. I want to eat food. I am hungry, you are hungry, he/she/we are hungry. Let’s eat.
I braided my hair once. That’s when I had hair on my head, that is. I fell from a treetop and a branch cut off all my hair. A living branch of the dead. A dead branch. How could a dead branch move you say? I have no idea this is just a writing exercise.
We learned soon that we all wanted to be each other. We wanted dark skin and they wanted light. Years later, the term “no weave” became a sign of acceptance of their Africanness. We still dabble with each other’s styles, but together we grew to accept our own uniqueness. That was one of my favourite experiences growing up in South Africa.
You’re in school. It’s a young school, whatever the equivalent of a primary is. Aged about 8, maybe younger. Girls braid each others hair. “This is a school, not a hairdressers!” She shouts. It doesn’t stop anybody. They don’t care. It’s something to do, rather than listen.
A braid is a magical thing. I don’t know why, but it’s always something I end up doing when I get up in the morning and don’t like what I see, because even if it doesn’t look great, it feels great. A braid is like a smooth vine that will never become rough.
Das Gehirn ist ein Brei aus miteinander verwobenen Nervenbahnen. Synapsen verbinden sie miteinander und sie werden zu einem Feuerwerk von Gedanken und Gefühlen, von Nähe und Ferne, von Geborgenheit und Wut, und sie treiben dich durch’s leben, bis du bei dir selbst landest.
Her hair twisted, tugged into the tight ribbon the woman was holding. She didn’t want it in her hair. She could feel the roots ripping, tearing away from her scalp. And she didn’t like it. How could she tell the woman in a polite manner that she was hurting her? Would that be rude to tell her to stop? Would she ignore her?
braid is something that women use to control or give a fresh look to their hair. braids come in all colors, shapes, lengths and textures. Some of the most beautiful women in the world look even more beautiful in braids.
Braid the broken pieces of yesterdays mistakes
together.
weave them.
they are woven into the beautiful mystery of all that never was and will never be.
methodically
i braid together the unknown pieces of my
yesterday
with my
tomorrow
There were two. Two braids placed neatly on the sides of her head. Each day she wore them with pride. They were like an emblem, a badge that showed her personality and her uniqueness. To others, they were like a stigma.
Who wears braids?, they thought. Cliche and out of touch with the present times, the two pleats were a throwback to a time when juice boxes and sleepovers were all the rage.
I always thought it would be the most wonderful thing in the world to have one long braid down the center of my back. For some reason, even when my hair was really long, it never worked out to look really great! I do appreciate seeing people in all kinds of hair braids — men, women, children, and all ages, too!
And then we reached her cell. Still too dark for me to see but Drake would have been able to see like the sun was shining bright. Once she heard our approach she shuffled towards the cell bars. A 12 year old girl. Pretty and deadly. Her hair was long and braided, she was wearing a dress that now was dirty and ripped.
I always wanted to be able to braid my hair, just never had the the talent for it I guess. I always feel envious when I walk down the hallway and I see that picture on the wall, reminding me of the person I admire for reasons I’m not even sure of myself. I hope that picture remains there for years to come.
She smoothed her daughter’s hair into place, long strands separated and then intertwined. She thought of all the times she had done this before, with less significance than now; before school, after, in the evenings wrapped up on the sofa. Gentle but firm, usually; less so, once or twice. The night of the ball she’d woven in wildflowers, blue to match her eyes.
“Safely home”
Rolling her eyes, “I know mum.”
For the last time she smoothed her daughter’s braid, then with scissors snipped it right off, clutched it close.
She licked her lips and tasted salt; kissed the tips of her fingers; shaking, touched them to her daughter’s cheek; skin stiff, cold. Unrecognisable.
Her hair flows beautifully down her back as the intertwined pieces fit together in a never ending master piece called her hair. She doesn’t realize the power she holds over my mind, body, and soul.
i haven’t had my hair in a braid in a very long time. when i was in high school my friend kahshanna would french braid my hair every morning. it was wonderful, it was nice to feel her hands in my hair, pulling and tugging on it. guiding it into it’s shape for the remainder of the day and the biggest benefit was that i didn’t have to do anything else to it and it helped it grow.
it must be the feel of my mother’s hands as she weaves through my hair. very determined hard tugs, never painful, but it gives me a natural facelift. this is just like her.
And it was amazing that our stories had intertwined themselves like this. I never imagined meeting such a diverse group of people. And I’ll say it: we hated each other from the start. People as different as that cannot be brought together easily. But we did it. And our lives will be completely irreversible because of it.
she wore her hair in braids. her skin smelled like sweetest blossom of spring. however, this was all part of her seduction – those little charms that you come to fall in love with. she held me in her grasp, and i found that i would never, ever be able to escape it.
braid to the side. thats what the ladies ive been lucky to surround myself with have been rocking. or rockin’, rather. i just discovered it the other week. its so good. because when your hair reaches a certain length and you dont feel like ever brushing it or even washing it. what should you do? loose bed head side braid.
I love braiding my hair. When I was little, my mom would put my hair in a French braid. Sometimes, I wish I knew how to do a French braid because now I live in a different country from my mother. Still, I braid my hair as much as possible to remember my childhood. It’s a comfort to have those two little braided pigtails.
I hate when my mom tries to braid my hair. it’s not pretty. if i don’t have my hair down, who will know i have worked a million months to grow it! it wouldn’t be fair to assume i love the hairstyle she chooses! but i don’t hate her….maybe i’ll just let her…. because i love her, not the braid.
i thought wasupposed to be honest. This is not so different. To braid or to be braided. Hair is big shit. I’ve had them but i haven’t been them. It’s alot of work to have and to hold.i’d rather do than be.
A braid flowing down her hot, sweat-covered neck made her seem more dignified and extravagant than any other woman. She glided toward the stage and took her place among the other actors and smiled. She opened her mouth and the words flowed out in a rich river of gold.
I’m picturing a horses mane braided which reminds me of my daughter who looks beautiful with a french braid in her hare as she sits atop an elegant looking horse.
the braid in the young girls hair fell down her back. she tought of how her mother used to braid it for her,. her braids were not as clean as pretty as her mothers were. she began to feel a lump in her thoat.
The girl braided her hair as she watched the sun set on the beach. She thought of the boys that she had left play with her hair over the years and one jumped forward. Tyler. The boy she was convinced she would marry, the one that she had begged not to leave, the one she had ended up hitting with her car that fateful night five years ago.
The braids in her hair fell down past her knees. I had never seen hair so long, so healthy, so touchable. I wanted to unweave the braids and blanket myself in the scent, in the musk of her sweat and curls. I knew she’d allow it, if enough time, enough serotinin, enough sunlight, enough vitamins, enough, enough, enough, is there ever enough? Is there ever contentment? Only through Christ would I ever feel that anything would ever be enough, because he is enough: perfect redemption, perfect sacrifice. But even he would cheer me on if I touched on of those braids. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would say it was fornication to touch a braid that wasn’t my own. But then, he would also say there is no condemnation, and so, whichever, “Go forth and touch braids no more.” Who knows.
many braids adorn the hair of many
the braids are not just for youngsters
another braid is one in marriage where there is the man , the wife, and Jehovah God all intertwined together for a successful and happy marriage even in this day and age of “disposables”
I braided her hair as we sat on the porch, waiting for our dad to come home. The gentle breeze brought the sweet scent of dinner to my nose, and I could not wait to sit down and eat with my family for the last time. College was coming up soon, and I was going to enjoy every last second I had with my family before I had to leave.
just one word you , you love me i love you so much I THINK THIS ONE WORD KEEPS ME SAFE IN THIS WORLD FULL ON NONSENSE, still you ate my nonsense…
A shirt of plaid,
And an English braid,
She sipped on her coffee,
As she opened the toffee.
All blue on blue,
Stripes and checks,
She went near the zoo,
Full of cream flecks.
Braid up that bread.
Braid my hair, my sister’s hair, my Barbie’s hair. French braid. French bread. Bread. Food. Delicious food. I want to eat food. I am hungry, you are hungry, he/she/we are hungry. Let’s eat.
A braid is when you twist two or more strands of anything together into like a damn shape or a tasty food or a cool hairstyle or what have you.
I like cinnamon braids and I like pretzels and challah.
I braided my hair once. That’s when I had hair on my head, that is. I fell from a treetop and a branch cut off all my hair. A living branch of the dead. A dead branch. How could a dead branch move you say? I have no idea this is just a writing exercise.
We learned soon that we all wanted to be each other. We wanted dark skin and they wanted light. Years later, the term “no weave” became a sign of acceptance of their Africanness. We still dabble with each other’s styles, but together we grew to accept our own uniqueness. That was one of my favourite experiences growing up in South Africa.
You’re in school. It’s a young school, whatever the equivalent of a primary is. Aged about 8, maybe younger. Girls braid each others hair. “This is a school, not a hairdressers!” She shouts. It doesn’t stop anybody. They don’t care. It’s something to do, rather than listen.
A braid is a magical thing. I don’t know why, but it’s always something I end up doing when I get up in the morning and don’t like what I see, because even if it doesn’t look great, it feels great. A braid is like a smooth vine that will never become rough.
Das Gehirn ist ein Brei aus miteinander verwobenen Nervenbahnen. Synapsen verbinden sie miteinander und sie werden zu einem Feuerwerk von Gedanken und Gefühlen, von Nähe und Ferne, von Geborgenheit und Wut, und sie treiben dich durch’s leben, bis du bei dir selbst landest.
Her hair twisted, tugged into the tight ribbon the woman was holding. She didn’t want it in her hair. She could feel the roots ripping, tearing away from her scalp. And she didn’t like it. How could she tell the woman in a polite manner that she was hurting her? Would that be rude to tell her to stop? Would she ignore her?
braid is something that women use to control or give a fresh look to their hair. braids come in all colors, shapes, lengths and textures. Some of the most beautiful women in the world look even more beautiful in braids.
Braid the broken pieces of yesterdays mistakes
together.
weave them.
they are woven into the beautiful mystery of all that never was and will never be.
methodically
i braid together the unknown pieces of my
yesterday
with my
tomorrow
tie a knot, a womans hair in a french braid, princess leah, native americans ,
There were two. Two braids placed neatly on the sides of her head. Each day she wore them with pride. They were like an emblem, a badge that showed her personality and her uniqueness. To others, they were like a stigma.
Who wears braids?, they thought. Cliche and out of touch with the present times, the two pleats were a throwback to a time when juice boxes and sleepovers were all the rage.
wedding, i love weddings, i want to get married someday, to prince charming! my hero, i have serval heroes, angelina jolie is one of them, love her!
he sat there with her, her hair was braided, and his arm was around her,
I always thought it would be the most wonderful thing in the world to have one long braid down the center of my back. For some reason, even when my hair was really long, it never worked out to look really great! I do appreciate seeing people in all kinds of hair braids — men, women, children, and all ages, too!
And then we reached her cell. Still too dark for me to see but Drake would have been able to see like the sun was shining bright. Once she heard our approach she shuffled towards the cell bars. A 12 year old girl. Pretty and deadly. Her hair was long and braided, she was wearing a dress that now was dirty and ripped.
I always wanted to be able to braid my hair, just never had the the talent for it I guess. I always feel envious when I walk down the hallway and I see that picture on the wall, reminding me of the person I admire for reasons I’m not even sure of myself. I hope that picture remains there for years to come.
She smoothed her daughter’s hair into place, long strands separated and then intertwined. She thought of all the times she had done this before, with less significance than now; before school, after, in the evenings wrapped up on the sofa. Gentle but firm, usually; less so, once or twice. The night of the ball she’d woven in wildflowers, blue to match her eyes.
“Safely home”
Rolling her eyes, “I know mum.”
For the last time she smoothed her daughter’s braid, then with scissors snipped it right off, clutched it close.
She licked her lips and tasted salt; kissed the tips of her fingers; shaking, touched them to her daughter’s cheek; skin stiff, cold. Unrecognisable.
Her hair flows beautifully down her back as the intertwined pieces fit together in a never ending master piece called her hair. She doesn’t realize the power she holds over my mind, body, and soul.
i haven’t had my hair in a braid in a very long time. when i was in high school my friend kahshanna would french braid my hair every morning. it was wonderful, it was nice to feel her hands in my hair, pulling and tugging on it. guiding it into it’s shape for the remainder of the day and the biggest benefit was that i didn’t have to do anything else to it and it helped it grow.
it must be the feel of my mother’s hands as she weaves through my hair. very determined hard tugs, never painful, but it gives me a natural facelift. this is just like her.
And it was amazing that our stories had intertwined themselves like this. I never imagined meeting such a diverse group of people. And I’ll say it: we hated each other from the start. People as different as that cannot be brought together easily. But we did it. And our lives will be completely irreversible because of it.
she wore her hair in braids. her skin smelled like sweetest blossom of spring. however, this was all part of her seduction – those little charms that you come to fall in love with. she held me in her grasp, and i found that i would never, ever be able to escape it.
braid to the side. thats what the ladies ive been lucky to surround myself with have been rocking. or rockin’, rather. i just discovered it the other week. its so good. because when your hair reaches a certain length and you dont feel like ever brushing it or even washing it. what should you do? loose bed head side braid.
I love braiding my hair. When I was little, my mom would put my hair in a French braid. Sometimes, I wish I knew how to do a French braid because now I live in a different country from my mother. Still, I braid my hair as much as possible to remember my childhood. It’s a comfort to have those two little braided pigtails.
I hate when my mom tries to braid my hair. it’s not pretty. if i don’t have my hair down, who will know i have worked a million months to grow it! it wouldn’t be fair to assume i love the hairstyle she chooses! but i don’t hate her….maybe i’ll just let her…. because i love her, not the braid.
i thought wasupposed to be honest. This is not so different. To braid or to be braided. Hair is big shit. I’ve had them but i haven’t been them. It’s alot of work to have and to hold.i’d rather do than be.
A braid flowing down her hot, sweat-covered neck made her seem more dignified and extravagant than any other woman. She glided toward the stage and took her place among the other actors and smiled. She opened her mouth and the words flowed out in a rich river of gold.
I’m picturing a horses mane braided which reminds me of my daughter who looks beautiful with a french braid in her hare as she sits atop an elegant looking horse.
the braid in the young girls hair fell down her back. she tought of how her mother used to braid it for her,. her braids were not as clean as pretty as her mothers were. she began to feel a lump in her thoat.
Golden hair, just as such of an angel. A woman more beautiful as life itself. Nothing more than a human but all in this world for me.
The girl braided her hair as she watched the sun set on the beach. She thought of the boys that she had left play with her hair over the years and one jumped forward. Tyler. The boy she was convinced she would marry, the one that she had begged not to leave, the one she had ended up hitting with her car that fateful night five years ago.
binding together, in an infinite twist.
The braids in her hair fell down past her knees. I had never seen hair so long, so healthy, so touchable. I wanted to unweave the braids and blanket myself in the scent, in the musk of her sweat and curls. I knew she’d allow it, if enough time, enough serotinin, enough sunlight, enough vitamins, enough, enough, enough, is there ever enough? Is there ever contentment? Only through Christ would I ever feel that anything would ever be enough, because he is enough: perfect redemption, perfect sacrifice. But even he would cheer me on if I touched on of those braids. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would say it was fornication to touch a braid that wasn’t my own. But then, he would also say there is no condemnation, and so, whichever, “Go forth and touch braids no more.” Who knows.
many braids adorn the hair of many
the braids are not just for youngsters
another braid is one in marriage where there is the man , the wife, and Jehovah God all intertwined together for a successful and happy marriage even in this day and age of “disposables”
I braided her hair as we sat on the porch, waiting for our dad to come home. The gentle breeze brought the sweet scent of dinner to my nose, and I could not wait to sit down and eat with my family for the last time. College was coming up soon, and I was going to enjoy every last second I had with my family before I had to leave.
Hair whipping in the wind. Tied down, tied back, under control. Contained but not constrained. I could let it loose at any minute… Freedom!