Chapter Eight
In the early morning light, Romey gathered a handful of her curls. Her fingers tugged at them from the roots, separating her hair into sections. She used a fat-tooth comb and started plucking at the unruly ends, which much preferred to stick together than hang on their own. When she was younger, she'd let her hair lock into permanent plaits, like her sister. But Romey had grown frustrated with the long locks constantly getting in her way as she happily dug in the dirt each day. So she'd shorn them off with gardening shears.
Her father, who placed inner beauty over physical beauty, had shrugged. Her mother, ever non-conforming to the feminine ideal, had beamed at her daughter’s uneven and lopsided new do. Jules, who’d at the time liked having a live mirror to gaze into, was
