It all began even before the break-up, but a five-hour screaming match in front of the campus library marked the grand finale of a yearlong mistake. He yelled at me the whole time, telling me I was crazy, that this was not working.  I did not disagree.  I begged him not to go.  (I hate that girl still.)

Weeks later, I decided something did need to change.  My honey-colored hair skimmed the middle of my shoulder blades.  In a salon’s mirror, I saw hair that was dirty, limp, lifeless. I slumped down in her chair, nineteen feeling like ninety-nine. I could only see what someone longer wanted.  The stylist started painting my hair with nostril-burning purple cream.  Two hours later, I saw bangs, and a short yellow bob, hyper-defined against the blurred face.

The nape of my neck was exposed, and I was struck by how cold the air was, how I could feel it so much in that small spot. Continue reading →