As I sat down in the stylist’s chair, It smelled like something had died. My eyes burned, my scalp felt as if it were on fire. Oh yeah, Have I mentioned I was smiling? Maybe it was the fumes from the hair bleach on my scalp, the thick, bright white gunk oozing its way down past my earlobe, whitewashing its way through my hair and painting chemically painting over each one until they become as bright as the sun.

This is finally the year, the year I’ve been given free reign on how I look.

Over the years I would always plead, “It’s just how I look, I’m still me!”

And over the years my father would always lecture me with, “You are a representation of me, wherever you go.”

And every time I heard that line over the years I felt the pressure build up inside me until I felt like I could explode. Suddenly, what felt like the mental equivalent of 16 years of repressed creativity, thousands of pounds of sheer resentment to the rules of my home, and a mountain of self consciousness come crumbling down off my mind like an avalanche.

At last, I’ve been able to be me, to decide who, “Me” is, to be free. As I think of all this, the prick of anger stings me as I imagine my father's words when he finds out his son had his hair dyed bleach blonde by his mother without his consent. It pains me to think about how he’d never understand how much this meant, he’d never care, Years and years of trying to explain to him that I'm still me whatever I look like, and his follow up of a shouting match of how I am his son and must do as he commands, taught me that. He'd do his best impression of the hulk, instead he'd lose the bulging muscles and keep the lack of proper words in his speech, he'd start bulging every vein in his neck, screaming and hitting like a 5 year old's temper tantrum, for all he sees is the color of hair, but what he doesn't see is the desire, the passion, the cry out for some semblance of originality, of my own unique self.

“Ridiculous”, I laugh to myself. And I, in that moment, came to learn of maturity, and the fact that age isn’t a factor. Finally, I’ve had clarity enough to start making my own decisions on my own life, and live with the consequences. Over these next months, I dress black, white, and shades of gray. I talk my own way, and maybe it's to some people's dismay, but in the end I feel better and happier every day. And, when people ask me anything about my hair, a smirk and laugh about the things my father had told me, “You’ll look like those kids that shoot up schools...”, “You’ll look like a freak”, and maybe he’s right. But I honestly don’t give a damn about what I look like to him. I feel happy, and that’s worth the $120 dollars of hair bleach to me.