brown hair boy - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He was the chestnut and the acorn, the seed of everything good to come, our brown haired boy. We could see the mighty goodness within him that branched out into all that he did at play. He was nature's child and our honour to raise.
A brown haired boy is slumped against the wall, his windswept locks matted and dull. His skin is so pale it has a waxy appearance and at first Tian thinks he's dead. But as he approaches he can hear the rattle of the boy's breathing, his air passing over mucus lined bronchi. Tian pulls out his cell phone, no reception...
His hair, dark and lustrous, had a sheen like fine hardwood. But that comparison isn't entirely fair, I suppose. Hardwood doesn't swish gently like his hair does, swaying with the words he speaks. A shiny varnish catches merely light around it, but the depths of that deep chestnut brown reflected all the radiance of his smile.
He hated his brown hair. It was boring. To him it was the colour of dull mud, lacking in any richer red tones. He saw himself as a fashionista, a leader of style at his school. He knew his mum wouldn't spring for colour at the salon so he started a little business to earn the money. He put it about that he was the fashion advisor to the most popular girl in school and he paid her twenty quid not to deny it. Then he charged the girls thirty dollars each to advise them on their wardrobes. In just a fortnight he had enough for pink streaks and a master cut at Vidal Sassoon.
The mirror had that patina of age over the bronze frame, likewise the surface of the glass was splotched black in places. Kinzey stood and stared at himself, or at least the distorted image of himself. The mirror showed him the boy the world saw, all they saw, somehow it didn't seem right. Inside he was fireworks and rage, love and frustrations, ambition and fear. All they saw was brown hair and the kind of blue eyes you forget while you're still looking at them. He ran a finger over the frame, feeling its cool ridges and grooves and the layer of dust that clung. Perhaps he'd take it with him, it didn't belong in this old dump anyway...
The boy was perfection in coffee hues; his hair and eyes were the colour of dark roasted beans but his skin was all latte. He had that shy look about him teens often get when they've grown too much too fast, like they aren't really sure about being a man just yet. He was skinny, but the way his clothes hung gave away the muscle beneath; and always in his wake were heads turning to watch him go.
Parsa must have been the most beautiful child. His hair is rich like mahogany and his dark eyes are large and bold, framed with thick lashes. Everything is about him is symmetrical, most obviously his cheekbones, but it extends to the way he smiles and holds his body.
Gregor's hair is the colour of sun-bleached wood. There are some dark streaks for sure but the pale browns dominate, never pale enough to be blonde and without any golden hues. He wears it like a mop, always hiding his eyes, but somehow the girls just can't keep theirs off him. He walks like his soul is playing soft jazz and he has the confidence of a baller, just without any trace of arrogance.
Liam walks in, half drown from the rain. His hair lies inky about his face, hanging in clumps. A half hour by the hearth and it'll be back to deep brown, reflecting the golden firelight. He's all spaghetti-like, as if his bones are part dissolved by the torrent outside...
He was only one or two years older than her at most. His dark hair furled down the nape of his neck while his fringe covered the right side of his face, going a little past his jaw-line. His eyes were bold, black, like that of a child. And yet they carried this stubborn hatred of the whole world.