Pretty brown eyes. Pretty brown skin. Pretty brown hair. Pretty brown girl. That is Carol. Carol's eyes. Carol's skin. Carol's hair. Carol is a girl. Carol thinks she is just brown. Not pretty. Just brown. Not a gingerbread brown like her mom but a black coffee brown like her father.

Sun comes in through the window. This is Carol's room. Her room is not adored with accolades and trophies. No posters of her favorite celebrity. No identity of her own.

A stack of cassettes sit on her dresser. All popular artists. She does not like them. Her friends like them. That is enough for Carol.

There is Carol fiddling with her hair. She sits at her vanity. Carol is trying to achieve the unachievable. Trying to deny when nature has gifted her.
Her hair is pressed and laid. Pretty brown hair. Pretty straight brown hair. Only pretty when chemically changed. Carol's kitchen. Not pretty. Not straight. Just brown.

Her clothes, straight off the rack. Her style, crafted by catalogs. Fueled by consumerism. If it is not a name brand it is not in her closet.

For a second her eyes flicker between the mirror and a picture shoved in the space between the frame and the mirror. Tommy Hagan. Tommy and Carol. Tommy is beige and Carol is brown. Tommy has a lot of unresolved issues so he treats people like shit. He treats Carol like shit. Carol thinks that is how relationships are supposed to be. That is all she saw. That is all she knows.

Her hands drop down. Pretty brown hair does not come naturally. It requires blood and tears. "This won't do." Carol mutters to herself.
She picks up on her brush. Methodically brushing her hair as she stares back at herself.

She is brown. Not pretty. Just brown?