Magenta Musings

First, the most recent comment on the video showing off my pink hair: "eww you look like one of thos really depressed chicks that try so hard to get attention. You also look like this one porno chick that I saw on Try Life. Actually I ind of think you do look like a porn star." 

True, true, what?, false. 

Someone also says that I "look like someone who would kill herself because her internet boyfriend broke up with her." 

Again, false! Thanks for playing!

I'm not too concerned, though, because I have never in my life felt so smokin'. I keep forgetting anything's different until I catch a glimpse of myself in my rearview mirror or someone mentions it to me. Or, of course, they glare at me disapprovingly. Suddenly when I hit the pop machine for eating my dollar, I'm no longer a cute little girl acting on impulse out of her character. Now I'm a crazy teenage delinquent who puts down her joint only long enough to litter and swear at children.

But you know what? I'm sort of okay with it. I remember a time a month or two ago, when I was walking out of a store, and a fourteen-year-old girl in the whole gothic getup was standing outside, crying to herself. I tried to give her a meaningful look that said, "I'm sorry you're upset, stranger," because what else can you really do? She looked at me, too... but her look said, "Shut up, preppy rich chick. You don't understand me at all." I know that's a lot to imply, but "if looks could kill" definitely came to mind. And you know what I wanted to say? I wanted to say, "Wait, no no no! We're on the same team! I'm not judging you! I'm damaged, too!" but I couldn't. Because at the end of the day, Abercrombie speaks louder than words.

Maybe I'm a typical product of the white, upper-middle class paradigm. Maybe I'm a good little church girl. But maybe I'm also a rooter for the underdog, a disbeliever in bad people, a little messed up, and a little bit attention-starved. I like looking weird, and I like having pink hair.

I was thinking about all that this afternoon. I was running into a restaurant to pick up dinner for me and my sister, and the girl behind the counter, who went to my high school (hahahaha; sorry), exclaimed, "Oh wow, I like it!" and it took me a second to realize what she meant. My hand absentmindedly went to my hair, and I shrugged and smiled. While I awkwardly muttered my thanks, I noticed something. Her nametag. I've been in school with this girl since I was eight, calling her by her long, unique name, while her nametag in the real world reads a short, one-syllable nickname. I immediately felt like a jerk for having never noticed before. I got all offended when people didn't know me as the school's best video-maker, and I never took the time to learn that someone'd changed their name.

I put in my order and we small-talked a bit. "I feel like a jerk," I finally admitted, indicating the nametag. "I had no idea you went by that now."

"Oh," she said, looking down the same way I'd reacted to my hair. "I just started. School's over."

I like that. The world of idiots messing up your car on purpose and English teachers not appreciating you are over when high school is over. Some burn their uniforms, some move out of state, some change their names, and some change their hair. I'm a fan of symbols, and you know what? I'm more of a fan of me when I look more like this. Huzzah! 

Chipotle burritos this year: 19

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Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3