brown hair - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Her hair was as waves of pure earth, softly reflecting the light of the sun; each strand moving freely in an ocean born breeze, a compliment to her stillness. With eyes of river waters, in glossy serenity, her aura seeped into the summer air between us. And in that moment, in that fraction of time, her smile was in every God given feature, and I knew I was home.
Her hair was a lovely whisky, the color of fallen leaves browned and sleek with the first rain of autumn. How such a tint could play with the light, like peering at the sun through a jar of pine honey.
Mia's hair was a soft brown, like the bark of an oak tree, not dark but simply gentle in any light. Without red or golden hues it reminded me of a childhood teddy bear and was the perfect contrast to her teal sweater - just like dry pebbles before the tide washes in to make them shine.
Tanya had hair the colour of summer baked mud and she hated it. She wanted golden locks or strands between auburn and fiery red. But to me it was perfection, it was part of her coloration, hues like the woodland - and whoever gets bored of trees?
There is beauty in every colour of hair, even the greatly despised "mousey brown." That subdued earthy tone is like a song softly played, bringing me to recollections of autumn. I know some have hair with brighter tones, inflections of vibrant red or gold streaks that catch the sunlight, I love those too. But earth herself has a beauty not to be ignored and to wear the colour of her soils is an honour not a misfortune.
Ivan's hair reminded me the rich soil of the valleys after spring rains, almost black in the shadows. When he stepped into the light it was a rich brown, almost with an undertone of red beneath the dark.
I could never look upon Sabrina's hair without being transported back to the old pebble beach. It had every colour of brown we used to walk over to reach the waves, watching as they water bestowed more vibrant hues.
Janet's hair that was once a glossy chestnut had become wane, as listless as her face. It hung like grass dried by the sun and set to rot by frigid rains. It clung to her boney face the way hair does when it hasn't been washed for a week or more, in skinny clumps.
Against her pale skin her hair was a deep brown, yet on any other it would be mid-to-fair. Perhaps that's what made the hair look like it didn't belong to her, like some bizarre wig. But by the way she had it tied back with stray hairs sticking out, no-one doubted it was all hers.