Lydia Rowlands

An exerpt from a novel currently in progress

She had spent too much of her life submitting, squeezing herself into moulds built for her by others. She had coerced her hair into a disguise with straightening chemicals and hot irons. Now it erupted angrily and unashamedly from her scalp, refusing to obey. 

It appeared as one mass, fluffy and soft. But look a little closer and it was full of contradictions. There were kinks, coils, curls, each strand on its own path with its own identity. And it was within her hair’s complexities where its true beauty lay, proud, unapologetic and raw.

She no longer felt obliged to sit quietly at quick remarks. She no longer feared the discomfort of others. She would no longer change herself. She wore her crown, wild and untamable, its inconsistencies laid bare. Like her soul it shined with a bold, blinding brightness. No longer could anyone deny it. No longer could anyone deny her.