Showing My Colours (At Least The Ones That Come Out Of A Bottle)

Recently I changed my hair colour. Actually, I paid someone entirely too much money to change my hair colour. I’ve missed doing things like that. Having brightly coloured hair, dancing like a crazy person, wearing tank tops in daylight rather than in dark smoky bars. Things I’ve been assured aren’t appropriate.

My parents did an excellent job of raising me. The very idea of making waves, no matter how small or how justified, terrifies me. Most of the time, that terrified part wins.

But you know what? Nobody even batted an eyelash when I showed up for work one Monday morning with candied-apple red hair. After months of hand wringing, hmm-ing and haw-ing, and wondering what the boss would say, I did it, and you know what he said?

Good morning.

No look of shock, no shouting, no frantically fast talking in Korean to someone who could tell me what he said. No orders to go fix that mess, nothing.

Don’t get me wrong, here more than anywhere else I’ve traveled in my life, I need to be careful where and how I show my true colours. But apparently my bottled ones are okay.


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