Fog moves in

 I've started two novels in my life. One I started shortly after graduating from college and another last year. This is the start of the second: 

"We knew we had to get the ponytail just right. The length of her hair at just that time of year, the honeyed ends glazed by summer's long lost days, her brown roots growing in just now as the fall leaves fell. The blond-tipped ponytail would be a beacon, a flash in the cold morning fog that would catch the light and his eye. The hope for my team was that he'd have a fantastical moment of deja Vu. That ponytail swish would look so familiar that he'd follow, not really knowing why, except that an old reflex had kicked in and he needed to see it just one more time - even if he already knew that hair lay in damp, dirty locks in the farthest corner of his basement."

There's more, but that's the start. Comments welcome.