I cried to my mother,
I don't want to be blonde anymore.


He liked blondes.
I couldn't change my dating past,
But I could make myself less interesting.
Right?

But she said
You can't change on the outside. Only underneath.
It was supposed to be better that way.

Teachers wouldn't see.
I wouldn't have to answer
Annoyingly personal questions.

So I did the opposite of light,
I dyed the under layers of my hair,
Black.
Then after a month,
Blue.

Just like me back then.

She was right.
They didn't ask because they couldn't see.
Didn't want to see.

It didn't work.
He wouldn't leave me alone.

So I thought,
I'll fight.
Red for blood, red for intimidation, red for fire trucks.
I'll be Red.

I decided to dye my hair red,
And chop it off to my shoulders.

My mother was right,
But it did not work.
Instead I embraced the Red.
I fought.
It took me 6 years to end it, and yet
I am still fighting the memory 5 years later.

But now,
People only notice when I braid my hair.
They ask if I had my hair done, I say no.

Only when I braid my hair,
Do I show the colours.