Whoever Dances is One with the Universe

Thank you. I fail at keywords and/or Shakespeareans. *dies*

Rosa purses her lips, unwilling to be afraid of the muddy, tangle-haired girl. "May I brush your hair?"

"An you take my veil--'tis silken, harm it not--"

So Rosa picks the reeds out first, before she begins to brush. Her flouncy, ruffle-and-ribbon'd little self is achy somewhere.