h264 webcam pro Carry a thigh hat on your head all year round! And especially – in the summer, when 38 is in the shade and asphalt melts.
Dasha is trying to tie them up, somehow opening the neck to the saving breeze, but they are reluctant to hold onto their heads, using the slightest reason to drain the golden waterfall back to their back – and the head is not sweet: get two instead of one lamb cap three.
Pulling them into a tight knot is no easier than doing the same with a thick flowerbed.
Secondly, they climb into the face and eyes.

When Dasha the artist draws, she always unconsciously throws the curls away from her forehead with a hand smeared in paint, and after some time a small rainbow appears on her forehead and above him.
The only way out is to fix the hair with an elastic bandage around the forehead – but, again, it’s hot.
Only recently Dasha found a way as simple as an orange: a hoop.
True, every two hours he slides under the pressure of rebelling curls out, but this is not such a disaster.
Thirdly, Dasha’s hair told her to say goodbye to a whim to wear a headdress: there are so many of them, and they are so elastic — for all their softness — that the poor head does not fit anything on Dashkin except knitted winter hats.

And then – the largest sizes, disproportionate with the figure Dasha, well – otherwise the Inquisition would envy the head so squeezed! Dasha found a creative way out, as always, and sews her own hats. russian teen web sex
But about caps, as such, has long been forgotten.
In the fourth, in the fifth and so on – insects are constantly confused in curls; curls can not be braided in a pigtail; curls terribly tickled; curls require special expensive shampoos, balms and conditioners, as well as regular visits to a beauty salon; curls weave into dead loops and cling to everything in the world, without missing a single belt from the bag; curls climb in the wind into the eyes, with any hairstyle not allowing to see absolutely nothing – and so on.
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As you can see, Dasha’s miracle, like any miracle, consists almost entirely of its drawbacks.
Actually, his dignity is only one thing – that it is a miracle.
Between the miracle, Dasha and me, a triangle of complex relations was formed, which no psychoanalyst will undertake to unravel.
Dasha, undoubtedly, appreciates and loves his miracle.
But this is not the calm love of the mistress for her offspring, it is the paradoxical, dual-style and masochistic love of the victim for his tormentor, the heathen to his god, love-hate, “which burns and destroys.”
Dasha will never dare to part with her mop, which has become part of her “I.”
But she is constantly overwhelmed with the desire to do her little dirty tricks, to degrade, ridicule, carnivally lower it.

She uses any occasion to haul her in everything that is smeared: paint with gouache, roll in clay or in mud, sprinkle with chalk.
Such masochism, of course, requires additional efforts to care for a miracle, but – for that, she and dostoevschina, to “tell the mind – goodbye!” When Dasha begins to cope with thirst for new impressions (condition, for her, in general, normal) – she paints hair of multi-colored gouache mixed with shampoo and goes to the institute in this form – and then I wash my head for half an hour (this is, by the way, we adore to cheering and blissfully rosy cheeks – and she and I); she finds a thick puddle, scoops up dirt with handfuls and slips it into her bindweed, turning the curly head into a brilliant cosmonaut helmet; She regularly teases me with dreams aloud – to repaint, shave or shave baldly.
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