She looked at me, intently
reaching out like she was going to rip it all out.
I wished she did.
I felt her hand, she felt rough curls
I saw her eyes, she saw fluorescent orange.
Blonde and brown everywhere.
straight and smooth everyone.
Alone and different at age four,
not so fun.
“Beautiful” they would say,
“You can not get that color at a salon” they were awed.
at age 8, colors clash with me.
Blue, black, green, and grey only.
13 and I now have a choice
Straight or natural?
I can decide.
I can braid, I can bun.
Hair is hair, not me.
I’m still different at age 16.
“Fireball” they call me.
It’s fine, I can take it
Once again my hair is a part of me
I’m unique, I’m special, I am flourescent orange