When I say all the guys in my family have a different hairstyle, I mean it. And I’m not just saying it to make my dad feel bad. My dad is as bald as an eagle, but balder. His head as shiny as King Neptune’s, but shinier. His hair as nonexistent as flying pigs. My brother, Kane, on the other hand, grew up with his afro as big as a clown’s, who hasn’t seen sport clips in months. It was almost as if it would swallow objects up, never to be seen again. A black hole, foresay. My other brother, Jamo’s, hair looked like a lion mane, freshly brushed. He looked as if he was ready to pounce, 24/7. Then there’s my hair. My hair is a curly mess that doesn’t really have any style. It just curls, and they each have a mind of their own. Wherever they want to go that day, really. There is a major difference between the boy’s hairstyles in my family, but I think they make us each unique in our own way.