Black hair

Her hair was so black I first thought it was dyed. But then, why would a nineteen year old dye her hair black? It was not oxygenated to a dull blonde, or dyed green, and she did not wear dozens of piercings, she didn't even have pierced ears or wore heavy-metal t-shirts. The hair was short, spiky, like a eight-year old boy would use. She dressed casually, plain white t-shirt and jeans, not those which cost hundreds of bucks to look cheap, but the common ones that are actually cheap, and she had those blue eyes that would help her to get almost anything in this world. Perhaps the hair just didn't match the rest of her. She didn't seem to care. I think she hadn't realized yet that she was a woman now, and a very pretty one, with a sweet face. I don't care about the hair, she was very beautiful anyway. And she still acted like a teenager, completely lost in her attempt to find her life. I couldn't help but watch her telling, while I half suppressed a grin, a very disposable story that had happened to her that very morning, that she thought was interesting and, more than that, would make her more interesting. Maybe she told it just because I was there, but I couldn't fool myself with such pretentiousness. She was completely unaware of herself, her nice body, which was just of that plain beauty that the world seemed to have forgotten lately: no silicone, no gym, no horrible diets, no oversized proportions; just the way she was, the cute young breasts that I had to strive not to stare at. But I had her face to distract me, the hair, too black. For some reason--the blue eyes and very white skin, I guess--I thought she might be blonde. I was reminded of those blonde jokes, and I wondered if she could have dyed her hair black not to be a blonde, and to be more respected. She was the kind of girl that would never want to look fancy or fatal, but maybe she spent hours and hours to get that look of carelessness, the non-blonde hair, and just couldn't do much about the blue eyes. I let her go, thinking about sand slipping through my fingers. I didn't watch her walk away, I was talking to other people. Maybe she looked back, and wondered if she should not look just a bit less casual, to have more effect over guys like me. But later I passed by her, while she talked to two other friends, and she didn't even look at me. Paying back, perhaps, looking sadly at my diminishing figure until I turned a corner and disappeared. Who knows, she might be thinking of me just now, as I think of her.