My hair isn’t taking any visitors right now.
My hair was used as a banner on the moon.
My hair is belly-dancing on an auntie’s tabletop.
My hair is flipping off an ICE raider after he barges into her favorite sandwich shop, arresting her neighbors. Look at her hurl her breakfast, concussing an officer with a hexed bacon, egg and cheese.
My hair escaped an arranged marriage to sail the seas near Somalia with a crew of burly pirates. She’s busy battling maritime brigands and trying not to get lost.
My hair is Medusa’s cousin, the strands slithering along your throat. Avert your gaze for your own good.
My hair fell off the long line on Mt. Everest trying to take a selfie.
My hair was captured from the exotic Manu wilderness and caged for a popular circus show.
My hair is under siege in Yemen. Her home was recently bombed and her children buried under the rubble. I’m not entirely sure if she’ll make it out alive.
My hair is ducking underneath a desk, trying to recall the drills, math sheets falling in a white rain.
My hair was abducted by aliens. Rumor has it she got sassy with the supreme lord and was tossed into a black hole. Others say she got on their good side, so they spun her into a star. That might be her there, winking down at you.
My hair was mauled on a Tanzanian Safari. I found a few leftover pieces of her flossed between a leopard’s fangs.
My hair joined a deep-rooted bedouin tribe. She enjoys feeding nomadic camels from her palm, became the shaykh’s third wife, and sings ancient poetry into campfires. She is happy. I don’t think she’s coming back.
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