I was born a blonde. I lived with the brown hair. I died a redhead. And buried as a brunette. What am I?

Answer: A Match.

More Medium Riddles with answers

More Medium Riddles

I was carried into a dark room, and set on fire. I wept, and then my head was cut off. What am I?
I was once alive, a creature of flesh and bone. I did not survive, now I am but stone. What am I?
I wear a huge dark cloak, not unlike the one of a wizard, I am the opposite of warm, I don't walk-I float, I prefer to be sad, not happy. I appear in clouds, not in the sky, I can only be extinguished by a happy spell, I will take your soul, if you cross my path. I am a foul creature, amongst the foulest, you might call me a light extinguisher. What am I?
I wear striped sweaters and have a real green thumb. My favorite things are flowers and the taste of ripe plums. My home is shared with family and we all work together. We live beneath our queens decree, always striving to be better . When I kill myself it hurts you too, and leaves a stinging pain. Everything I say is true: now tell me, what's my name?
I wear you down, yet you'll mourn me once I fly. You can kill me, but I will never die. What am I?
I welcome the day with a show of light, I steathily came here in the night. I bathe the earthy stuff at dawn, But by the noon, alas! I'm gone. What am I?
I went to city OZ on the way I saw four women, with four bags, who have four kittens. Each women had two children with her. How many people went to city OZ? (count correctly)
I wiggled and cannot see, sometimes underground and sometimes on a tree. I really don't want to be on a hook, and I become a person when combined with a book. What am I?
I'm a weight on your shoulders and only bring you down. My only weakness is above you. What am I?
I'm a word meaning eating well, but when one letter goes missing I mean starvation. What am I?
I'm blue at day and black at night; I do contain some creatures born and died. What am I?
I'm by nature solitary, scarred by spear and wounded by sword, weary of battle. I frequently see the face of war, and fight hateful enemies; yet I hold no hope of help being brought to me in the battle, before I'm eventually done to death. In the stronghold of the city sharp-edged swords, skilfully forged in the flame by smiths, bite deeply into me. I can but await a more fearsome encounter; it is not for me to discover in the city any of those doctors who heal grievous wounds with roots and herbs. The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider; death blows are dealt to me by day and by night. What am I?