He tugged on her braid lightly – she looked down at her young son’s tanned, native face. So many memories lay within, and she remembered all the times her hair had seen as well. Always growing longer, but always the same crimped strands.
The braided rope was beautiful, but not decorative: it was oppressive. It came down with force that shook me to my core. Then, through it all, a silence descended like peace. I think of these times with longing; I think of these times with love; I think of these times with fear. I am free now: sometimes, I miss it.
A braid is interesting, I don’t know what it is. I should care what it is, but what is it? Perhaps they mean braid as in hair. They do. I should have known that. I didn’t.
Braid. Interesting.
Braid? I don’t have enough hair to braid. I don’t even know if I like braids on girls. It’s weird and childlike. It can be creepy if your girlfriend has braids. Is it wrong to find that attractive when mainly little girls have braids? It’s weird, braids. I don’t much like them. I wouldn’t burn them, but I don’t like them.
her braid hung non-chalontly over her shoulder, reaching the small of her back. It swayed with the wind, the beautiful golden locks shone in the sunshine. I have never loved so much than in that moment.
She was always the sensible one.
The quiet one.
The mature one.
The one that made other parents go “why can’t you be more like her?” when their own children misbehave.
She looked sensible, too.
Her skin was always clean and makeup-free, body always lacking any jewelry with the exception of one solitary pearl stud in each ear, and hair always plaited into a long, brown braid that hung down the center of her back.
We used to admire her hair; the length, the color, the way it shone.
Her body was found last night
next to a pair of shears and the remnants of her braid.
She was tired, she used to say.
She was tired of braids.
I picture braids in my own hair, when I was little, and braids on horse tails.
At one time, I considered getting braids all over my head. I thought it might look cute. Some time later I was someplace that offered to wrap a small bunch of hair in colored yarn. It ended up being about the thickness of a pencil. One little bunch of hair.
That thing bothered me SO MUCH! It hurt like heck and was always swinging back and forth, whacking me, and pulling on what felt like just a few tiny strands on my head. I left the wrap in out of stubbornness – and the thought that maybe in time I’d get used to it – and it finally broke off completely about a month later. I never got used to it. It hurt all the way to the end.
When I think that a head full of tiny braids might have been just like that, but multiplied, I’m relieved I never tried it.
Emma threw her braid over her shoulder, quickly working the dough into a twisted pretzel. She wiped the sweat from her brow, dashed salt on her work and put it in the oven to bake.
“Emma, are you quite finished?”
“Not yet, Mother!” called Emma. Sighing, she worked her way over to the pile of dough to start again
She said, “If you’ll let me I’ll put a french braid in your hair.” Okay. It felt nice, sitting their in comfortable silence, someone else combing my hair, turning and twisting it gently. However, in the end, it just looked like I had a zipper on the back of my skull.
The little girl braided each others hair at the innocent sleepover. The gossiped about boys and who was the cutest at school and what they thought about the latest trends. It was a simple sleepover where all the girls got together just to do this, but it was apparent that it meant more to the new girl of the town.
She ran her fingers along the braids she’d pinned to her head. Her hair was getting so long and experimenting with new styles made the length more tolerable.
Braid, okay well I don’t really know how to french braid but I can braid like individual braids and such. I keep back spacing and my face is dry haha. I hav4e sodaa and Im happy that my ipod wrlskdnf
He braided her hair for her because her fingers were stumpy and clumsy and she kept them heavily bandaged. His friends would tease him about, saying he was too good at it and that obviously meant he was gay. But the little boy liked working with hair just as much as he liked working with the little girl’s hair.
“You’ll look so pretty,” he told her, his voice shaking. “Like a princess.”
“Like a princess,” she repeated, and the bandages became her jewels.
There is nearly always a braid somewhere in my hair. The beauty in something so simple, something that can take my astoundingly frizzy, puffball of hair, and make it into something tame, always surprises me. The pieces twist in and out of one another, becoming combined but distinguishable all at once.
Es ist breit und es ist hoch. Aus Metallsteinen gegossen, im Stück. Es steht in der weiten Landschaft. Es ist ein Quader, hochkant und grau. Die Wände sind so glatt, dass kein Vogel an ihm ein Nest bauen kann. Der Wind findet keinen Halt und er strömt Kühle aus. Kühle, das Fehlen von Wärme.
Jahda was an unusual girl. She always had her eyes pasted to that dictionary of hers, always humming that strange tune. Her Black Dalia hair was worn in a loose fishtail braid, and her socks went to her knees. Her long sleeves were pulled tight into the palm of her hand, as if she was anxious or scared or both. But, once, I caught a glimpse of the mess she had made of herself, of the angry hatch marks and pocked skin underneath those sweaters. But pain was Jahda’s opiate, filling her up and distracting her. Pain was her remedy.
braid my hair
no
please
no
you don’t hold still, you complain about the tightness no.
but I want to keep the wind from blowing it around!
most guys do not wear their hair in french braids, you know that don’t you?
i like braids wish i could make one with my hair since they have lengths different and it’s kinda difficult to braid my hair and look beautiful at the same time. too bad…
it is the way a persons hair can be done. In Africa it is very common thing and comes in a big variety. It is very pretty and looks good when going to a ceremony like a wedding. The colored women of Africa sometimes do it for money. It is a very commonly used hairstyle by travelers and adventurers, because they are not used to it.
Her hair had been braided that morning, a large, chunky braid that matched the cinnamon bread her mother had made her the day before. It had had flwoers woven into it, and thread that caught the light and glistened in the sun. Now it was unraveling, falling apart in the setting sun just liek everything else around her. When the soldiers came there was only chance to run. She had left everything behind.
She braided my hair like I was getting married! Well, technically, I was getting married but it felt so surreal, I never felt this feeling in full force before. Mike was getting ready as my hair was being done– I’m sure we were both equally excited at this point. I was getting married! Every girl’s dream and it was finally happening for me! How amazing…
I braid my hair in pig tails when it was long. I learned how to braid from my babysitter on a barbie doll. I’m pretty good at it. Braids are very interesting designs; I wonder who came up with it. I braid my bangs sometimes. Reminds me of bread. Reminds me of school girls.
/Word: Braid/
Her auburn hair, always done in a long, French braid,
concealed her knife,
and she walked nonchalantly across town.
The moment she had been thoroughly planning,
the moment was creeping up.
She reached up her braid,
to grab the handle,
as he walked by;
oblivious to his imminent danger.
*Stayed tuned for the second installment!*
I asked why she’d decided to braid her hair. She told me that she’d always admired the proud, young black girls with their tight, braided hair. She didn’t have a Rosa Parks or Harriet Tubman to admire. She was just a white devil, after all.
/Braid/
Braiding the fibers of understanding together,
weaving the delicate threads of acceptance
upon the loom;
the loom, the foundation,
where art is sprung and people are created,
The Ultimate Weaver skillfully and gently,
creates
and treasures each work of art.
I love to braid hair, inside out backward, long hair or short, thick and thin hair. Its beauty is timeless and serene. Fancy and simple, elegant dinner party and everyday chore hair.
her hair in school girl braids, fresh faced, so innocent. her Mum looks after her, pulls her hair tight into those plaits, that pure unsullied expression twisted into a warning of the viciousness to come….
on lazy autumn days like these, she would call up her best friend, and she would come over, and they would sit in her room and braid in each other’s hair. cliche and girly, they knew, but sometimes they just couldn’t care less. french braids, plaits, those little hippy things that took a few billion hours to make–followed by baking cookies and pillow fights and the most stereotypical things they could think of, they did it all. everyone has to let go sometimes.
Dancing girls. Spinning around their partners like rainbow wind. Singing, laughing, shining. Their bare feet skimming the grass, their white dresses dirty, their flower incrusted braids whipping around their rosy faces.
Her braid whipped his face as she turned around in disgust. It was the end. The fairytale love was over. The shining, glittering, beautiful romance that they’d invented was finished. He sighed, and his heart bled.
hair falling down your back, twisted and turned to rain down, down, down, along your neck, behind the white of your ears, banded in place. your silk pulled away from the porcelain of your skin. wisps flying to frame your face, the rest out of sight upon your shoulder.
braided rug. we just laid one down in the new dining room. oh, the rich, deep colors all intertwined with one another. they speak welcome. they that intertwine with one another invite those of us gathered to do the same. braided rug. braided hearts. rich, deep, welcoming. yes.
He braided flower into my hair. The soft tough of his fingers running through me white-blond strands made everything in the world somehow more beautiful and I was happy.
golden hair rests upon her shoulders
tightly wound back and forth
between thoughts and dreams
and reality.
He tugged on her braid lightly – she looked down at her young son’s tanned, native face. So many memories lay within, and she remembered all the times her hair had seen as well. Always growing longer, but always the same crimped strands.
The braided rope was beautiful, but not decorative: it was oppressive. It came down with force that shook me to my core. Then, through it all, a silence descended like peace. I think of these times with longing; I think of these times with love; I think of these times with fear. I am free now: sometimes, I miss it.
A braid is interesting, I don’t know what it is. I should care what it is, but what is it? Perhaps they mean braid as in hair. They do. I should have known that. I didn’t.
Braid. Interesting.
Braid? I don’t have enough hair to braid. I don’t even know if I like braids on girls. It’s weird and childlike. It can be creepy if your girlfriend has braids. Is it wrong to find that attractive when mainly little girls have braids? It’s weird, braids. I don’t much like them. I wouldn’t burn them, but I don’t like them.
her braid hung non-chalontly over her shoulder, reaching the small of her back. It swayed with the wind, the beautiful golden locks shone in the sunshine. I have never loved so much than in that moment.
Tendrils and curls; crazy and free. Who wants to be controlled by a hairstyle anyway?
hair, fun, pull it, shhe had terrific braids. mmmm so soft. they flew in the air as she tworrded her head in the wind the braids were bleu blew
She was always the sensible one.
The quiet one.
The mature one.
The one that made other parents go “why can’t you be more like her?” when their own children misbehave.
She looked sensible, too.
Her skin was always clean and makeup-free, body always lacking any jewelry with the exception of one solitary pearl stud in each ear, and hair always plaited into a long, brown braid that hung down the center of her back.
We used to admire her hair; the length, the color, the way it shone.
Her body was found last night
next to a pair of shears and the remnants of her braid.
She was tired, she used to say.
She was tired of braids.
braid
I picture braids in my own hair, when I was little, and braids on horse tails.
At one time, I considered getting braids all over my head. I thought it might look cute. Some time later I was someplace that offered to wrap a small bunch of hair in colored yarn. It ended up being about the thickness of a pencil. One little bunch of hair.
That thing bothered me SO MUCH! It hurt like heck and was always swinging back and forth, whacking me, and pulling on what felt like just a few tiny strands on my head. I left the wrap in out of stubbornness – and the thought that maybe in time I’d get used to it – and it finally broke off completely about a month later. I never got used to it. It hurt all the way to the end.
When I think that a head full of tiny braids might have been just like that, but multiplied, I’m relieved I never tried it.
Emma threw her braid over her shoulder, quickly working the dough into a twisted pretzel. She wiped the sweat from her brow, dashed salt on her work and put it in the oven to bake.
“Emma, are you quite finished?”
“Not yet, Mother!” called Emma. Sighing, she worked her way over to the pile of dough to start again
the braid of her hair stretching down her back, woven with twigs from the woods, honeysuckle, the tangles like shining interlaced fingers
She said, “If you’ll let me I’ll put a french braid in your hair.” Okay. It felt nice, sitting their in comfortable silence, someone else combing my hair, turning and twisting it gently. However, in the end, it just looked like I had a zipper on the back of my skull.
The little girl braided each others hair at the innocent sleepover. The gossiped about boys and who was the cutest at school and what they thought about the latest trends. It was a simple sleepover where all the girls got together just to do this, but it was apparent that it meant more to the new girl of the town.
She ran her fingers along the braids she’d pinned to her head. Her hair was getting so long and experimenting with new styles made the length more tolerable.
“What do you think?” She asked him.
He smiled, brightly. “I think I kinda like it.”
Braid, okay well I don’t really know how to french braid but I can braid like individual braids and such. I keep back spacing and my face is dry haha. I hav4e sodaa and Im happy that my ipod wrlskdnf
He braided her hair for her because her fingers were stumpy and clumsy and she kept them heavily bandaged. His friends would tease him about, saying he was too good at it and that obviously meant he was gay. But the little boy liked working with hair just as much as he liked working with the little girl’s hair.
“You’ll look so pretty,” he told her, his voice shaking. “Like a princess.”
“Like a princess,” she repeated, and the bandages became her jewels.
There is nearly always a braid somewhere in my hair. The beauty in something so simple, something that can take my astoundingly frizzy, puffball of hair, and make it into something tame, always surprises me. The pieces twist in and out of one another, becoming combined but distinguishable all at once.
Es ist breit und es ist hoch. Aus Metallsteinen gegossen, im Stück. Es steht in der weiten Landschaft. Es ist ein Quader, hochkant und grau. Die Wände sind so glatt, dass kein Vogel an ihm ein Nest bauen kann. Der Wind findet keinen Halt und er strömt Kühle aus. Kühle, das Fehlen von Wärme.
Jahda was an unusual girl. She always had her eyes pasted to that dictionary of hers, always humming that strange tune. Her Black Dalia hair was worn in a loose fishtail braid, and her socks went to her knees. Her long sleeves were pulled tight into the palm of her hand, as if she was anxious or scared or both. But, once, I caught a glimpse of the mess she had made of herself, of the angry hatch marks and pocked skin underneath those sweaters. But pain was Jahda’s opiate, filling her up and distracting her. Pain was her remedy.
braid my hair
no
please
no
you don’t hold still, you complain about the tightness no.
but I want to keep the wind from blowing it around!
most guys do not wear their hair in french braids, you know that don’t you?
i like braids wish i could make one with my hair since they have lengths different and it’s kinda difficult to braid my hair and look beautiful at the same time. too bad…
it is the way a persons hair can be done. In Africa it is very common thing and comes in a big variety. It is very pretty and looks good when going to a ceremony like a wedding. The colored women of Africa sometimes do it for money. It is a very commonly used hairstyle by travelers and adventurers, because they are not used to it.
Her hair had been braided that morning, a large, chunky braid that matched the cinnamon bread her mother had made her the day before. It had had flwoers woven into it, and thread that caught the light and glistened in the sun. Now it was unraveling, falling apart in the setting sun just liek everything else around her. When the soldiers came there was only chance to run. She had left everything behind.
She braided my hair like I was getting married! Well, technically, I was getting married but it felt so surreal, I never felt this feeling in full force before. Mike was getting ready as my hair was being done– I’m sure we were both equally excited at this point. I was getting married! Every girl’s dream and it was finally happening for me! How amazing…
I braid my hair in pig tails when it was long. I learned how to braid from my babysitter on a barbie doll. I’m pretty good at it. Braids are very interesting designs; I wonder who came up with it. I braid my bangs sometimes. Reminds me of bread. Reminds me of school girls.
/Word: Braid/
Her auburn hair, always done in a long, French braid,
concealed her knife,
and she walked nonchalantly across town.
The moment she had been thoroughly planning,
the moment was creeping up.
She reached up her braid,
to grab the handle,
as he walked by;
oblivious to his imminent danger.
*Stayed tuned for the second installment!*
I asked why she’d decided to braid her hair. She told me that she’d always admired the proud, young black girls with their tight, braided hair. She didn’t have a Rosa Parks or Harriet Tubman to admire. She was just a white devil, after all.
/Braid/
Braiding the fibers of understanding together,
weaving the delicate threads of acceptance
upon the loom;
the loom, the foundation,
where art is sprung and people are created,
The Ultimate Weaver skillfully and gently,
creates
and treasures each work of art.
The girls braids fell down past her shulder blades. She was only hanging upside down in the tree eating a apple.
liondesk as lovways
neyk as dolph an
eïeul snobrde you
I love to braid hair, inside out backward, long hair or short, thick and thin hair. Its beauty is timeless and serene. Fancy and simple, elegant dinner party and everyday chore hair.
her hair in school girl braids, fresh faced, so innocent. her Mum looks after her, pulls her hair tight into those plaits, that pure unsullied expression twisted into a warning of the viciousness to come….
on lazy autumn days like these, she would call up her best friend, and she would come over, and they would sit in her room and braid in each other’s hair. cliche and girly, they knew, but sometimes they just couldn’t care less. french braids, plaits, those little hippy things that took a few billion hours to make–followed by baking cookies and pillow fights and the most stereotypical things they could think of, they did it all. everyone has to let go sometimes.
This band rules. 90’s emo. Super-punk.
Dancing girls. Spinning around their partners like rainbow wind. Singing, laughing, shining. Their bare feet skimming the grass, their white dresses dirty, their flower incrusted braids whipping around their rosy faces.
Her braid whipped his face as she turned around in disgust. It was the end. The fairytale love was over. The shining, glittering, beautiful romance that they’d invented was finished. He sighed, and his heart bled.
hair falling down your back, twisted and turned to rain down, down, down, along your neck, behind the white of your ears, banded in place. your silk pulled away from the porcelain of your skin. wisps flying to frame your face, the rest out of sight upon your shoulder.
braided rug. we just laid one down in the new dining room. oh, the rich, deep colors all intertwined with one another. they speak welcome. they that intertwine with one another invite those of us gathered to do the same. braided rug. braided hearts. rich, deep, welcoming. yes.
He braided flower into my hair. The soft tough of his fingers running through me white-blond strands made everything in the world somehow more beautiful and I was happy.