Wingless Angel

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Angel. Golden hair, blue eyes, stout little arms and legs. Of all my dolls and stuffed toys, she’s the one. She’s the one I treasure the most. My parents gave her to me when I was about a year old. But at that time, she didn’t look anything like what she does today; prettier, more elegant, her dress tidy. Her hair wasn’t unruly at all like now. I could run my short, little, baby fingers through her hair and not encounter one knot.

But as the years passed, slowly, gradually like the hour hand waiting patiently for the next hour, her hair started to become kinkier and kinkier. Her hair started to bunch up into chunky knots, and no matter how hard I tried to brush her hair, there was no hope. I was even lucky that the tiny, yellow, Tweety bird brush did not get lost in her hair. Her hair looks like a haystack, but I still like it. My nanny then helped me and suggested putting Angel’s dirty blonde and knotted hair, into a ponytail. The bunchy hair was fluffy, soft to the touch. It was comforting, the feeling of her hair alone took away my worries.

If I had not cleaned her face, her ocean blue eyes, if I had not wiped it till it shone, it would be hard to tell that her cheeks were rosy, and that the color of her skin was a gorgeous tan. Being in my closet for two years now, I expect her appearance to be near unrecognizable. But still, I would look at her like she was the most beautiful doll ever. And I bet if she was a real girl, she’d be turning heads and breaking necks.