Loose Strands

 


The laundromat was nearly empty, save for the rhythmic hum of washing machines and the occasional beep of a dryer finishing its cycle. She sat on one of the plastic chairs by the window, absentmindedly twirling a strand of her long, dark hair between her fingers as she waited for her laundry to finish.  


The fluorescent lights cast a soft glow over her hair, making it shine as it spilled over her shoulders and down her back, slightly tousled from the day. Every now and then, she would gather it all to one side, running her fingers through it, smoothing out invisible tangles before letting it fall freely again.  


A warm breeze drifted in from the open door, causing a few loose strands to lift and dance around her face. She tucked them behind her ear, only for them to slip free again moments later. It was an endless, effortless cycle—tucking, falling, tucking, falling—like the hair had a will of its own.  


The dryer buzzed, breaking the stillness. She sighed, stood up, and with one final sweep of her hand, gathered her hair behind her shoulders before walking over to collect her freshly dried clothes.  


The strands settled back into place, as they always did, effortlessly flowing, as if they had never been disturbed at all.

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