she was like those /light-
up sketchers/ {or a} <pair> of
worn out h e e l y  . s;
*gone.

There are two kinds of blond.  Theres the subtle blond, with the dark highlights curling around yellowy strands of hair lain out like grain on a late summer day, baking in the heat of the sun and swaying in the Southern breeze.  Most tale this blond and own it like a miser would their gold.  They just can't let it go, no matter the personal cost, and every time they see it, it takes their breath away.
Not this blond.
This blond got you asking questions.  It's a cloud and a blade all in one.  It's an icy frost piercing through to the warmth underneath your skin.  Its got claws in you now, crawling up your spine, in your back.  Your mind tells you it just cant be real, its too different, too perfect.  But its got the heart in you racing wildly, a roller coaster that ends at reality and starts up again when you announce impossibility.  No way, no way, no way.  The blond of yesterday is today's satin sheets, and you can feel it dragging you closer and closer to bed, that pesky little ******* in your ribs, around your lungs.  Light as feathers you think as you feel yourself floating and falling in rapture in the mystery of it all.  The snow outside's got you questioning if you'll ever see that brightest white again in this storm.  Not this blond.  It's a once in a lifetime opportunity and it's shining right in front of you like bitter cold diamonds.  But **** you think it comforts like a dove. So hope and stay silent, so this get rich quick scheme falls into place, synchronizing with the purest, most blinds white you've ever known.