Her hair was the golden brown of the most perfect loaf of bread, coiffed flawlessly into a mass of curls where each had its place. Except for the two glossy ones that coiled over her shoulders. The tendrils flirt with her collarbone and the expanse of soft skin between her pearls and the Brussels lace edging the square, low neckline of her gown.
Her gown is simple but flattering, the cunning little chapeau gracing her head modest in its decoration, but those ringlets, they beckon like a siren on a sea-swept rock. They dare one to capture them and twist one around your finger to feel its glossy smoothness, smell the soft fragrance of spring peonies that has been captured there.
It is not the girl but the curl that draws you in, that captures your interest. The curls, they are the true coquette.