Who I See

I would look in the mirror and see a slew of different things. Curls that run rampant, tickling the underside of my tanned chin. The ends are blonde, a spur-of-the-moment choice made to kill the lower part of my hair follicles. It was a look I’d done often in high school, and one I wanted to pick up again in adulthood. Many praised the color, pointing and smiling, some I could see the humor or judgement that danced behind their eyes; humor and judgement I chose to ignore because in my own dark browns, the color of a rich chocolate that morphed to caramel in the light, I looked at the short style in appreciation and awe.

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