Girl hair

“Shut up, stupid,” Junaid snarled. “If you didn’t have so much ugly girl hair, maybe you would actually have friends.” I shrugged, but on the inside I wanted to yell at him.

“Shut up, stu—”

“Stop fighting or else you will have some real problems with me,” my dad, Kyriell, screeched through the house. His fluffy dreads and mustache shook; he barked on about how it was only 7:30 a.m. and we were already fighting.

Uh oh, here we go again, I thought.

Then my brother went three words too far. “You’re so annoying.” Junaid, my brother, looked satisfied, but I hate when people call me annoying and stereotype me. In fact, when we got in the car, I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, but I knew that my brother, Junaid, would just continue making fun of me, so I put a lid on my feelings of despair and sadness. I was so distracted that I didn’t have time to worry about what the eighth-graders would think about a boy with long hair and no friends.

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