Her hair was woven from the black heavens, fine strands of spacetime and starlight.
Her black hair flowed as sweetly as a poet's ink and quill.
Her hair, black and straight, moves as soft prairie grass in summer wind. It gives contrast to her face, sweetly dark upon soft brown skin. She woven into the beauty of this place rather than a thing apart. There is something of her spirit here in the trees and the waterways, as if they are always in communion, ever happy together.
Black braids hug Amy's face, highlighting the beauty of her face. Other than the brilliant white of her August smile and the pink of her lips, she is a perfect blend of browns from her skin to her Sunday dress.
There is something about an afro that is so beautiful and bold. I love black hair, especially in tousled springs. It's a sort of visual joy reaching upward to the heavens. It is confidence and strength.
Into her inky hair she weaves vivid colours that change with each passing day. No matter the hues she is beautiful, doesn't everything look great with black?
Her hair was light upon the night sea, black strands glowing in broad impressionist bands.