A man named after a cartoon dinosaur dog did my hair this weekend.

Not conservative, not conservative, I told him - I am not from here, I am not one of them. But he persisted with “rich caramel highlights” that left my hair the same as before; only altering my wallet. I returned the next day and he protested; “I look at you and I don’t see studs. I don’t see a Ramones shirt. I don’t see wild and wacky. I see your green flipflops and your turquoise necklace, and you have your own style and that’s totally fine but I just don’t see a once a year girl needing the crazy color.” He gave me a red rinse and sent me along my way, and I held onto it until tonight, when I dared wash fragile red pigments down the drain.

I watched the pink water, as if knowing could stop it, arching my back in the dirty claw foot tub, seeing the color swirl out of me.