I Needed Control of My Life, So I Started With My Hair
I grieved the chance to have an uncomplicated pregnancy. I grieved the fact that having more babies could be potentially fatal. And I grieved a younger, more carefree me.
One night, I pulled up my old Flickr account and browsed pictures from my early twenties, with my leopard pants, bondage belt, and blonde hair. What a bad bitch I was, I thought. I was cute and sassy. My hair was so light, it looked like I was ready to burn down King’s Landing. I remembered long nights staggering home up a big hill on Main Street in Pittsburgh, stopping at the playground to swing when I was halfway up. Waking up with bruises after falling down a fire escape the night before and picking up skinny dudes with Mohawks at Eighties Night. I’d never be able to recreate these days, but I could certainly recreate the aesthetic.
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