My High Hallways

It's funny how no one on a high school campus is allowed more then
two square inches of personal space. Even then it can be invaded.

I could have sworn I had never seen so many heads of hair that looked
so identical it proved hard for me to distinguish between two seperate
locks. Blonde, with little strands of dusty brunette so retain a bit of
"natural color". Only poor people dyed their hair without the magic of
a few highlights here and there. That rule, of course, excluded me
completely. I had never dyed my hair, and from the looks of it, I never
would.

I remember pulling at a loose lock of red ringlet that had escaped my
clip placed strategically in the center of my head. Bits of friz and
flyaways were dancing around my face, tickling gently at my forehead.
Tightly wound curls clung to the bobbypins hapharzardly thrown on to
loose strands of hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame my mane of
coppery colored hair.

I pulled aggrivatedly at my jeans that hung just below my hips. A white
sash was thrown around the waistline, and a loose bow hung limply,
dangling as if it had been doused with water. I glanced around for a
moment after examining my own outfit. Jeans diliberately aged, worn
leather belts, and monotone flip flops swormed the hallways. Hair was
slightly wavy with the classic beach blonde, and I occasionally found a
single hawaiian flower pinned into someone's long blonde hair.

No one, I had concluded, had any sense of individuality. All that
existed anymore was the flocking to trends, soon to vanish and be
replaced by another, equally short lived trend. Shame uniqueness hasn't
yet hit the mainstream.