Bathroom Stalls

You’re twelve the first time you dye your hair. Red. Red as your mother’s leather couches. Red as sunburn. Red as the period you’ve just started.

You know you’ll get in trouble, but that’s why you locked the door. Dye packets litter the tile as you inexpertly run the bottle through your hair.

When it’s finished you look awful, but you’re happy. You’ve never been so excited to be so ugly.