I like to pretend it’s natural. Most people compliment me on it, or at least stare, usually admiringly. I’ve been told it’s ‘good hair’, and it’s blue. Deep indigo blue, so much so that a normal greeting is, ‘Hey. Your hair is looking blue today.” Or sometimes ‘Is it just me or is your hair more purple today?”

It depends on the light. But one thing is certain—when my hair is this color, no one ever tells me how ‘good’ my hair is. How interesting it looks, maybe. But not since my hair’s been dyed blue has anyone told me that my hair is the perfect balance between black kinky-curly and white straight, or asked me what race I am. [I’m half Dutch, a quarter German, and only a quarter black, though to most people I seem to be classed as black.] My hair is an effective shield—I’m no longer racially segregated; maybe I'm even inhuman. I am admired by most and glared at by few. Giggles sometimes ensue when I walk down the street in a pinpoint oxford and chinos, my hair blazing blue above it all. I can’t care less. It’s an experiment in identity. Why do people treat me different, I wonder? Maybe it’s a willingness to be different; maybe it borders on desperateness. Maybe it’s my self-serving tendencies, my closet exhibitionist breaking out. Maybe I just want attention. But when it all boils down, I’m pretty sure it’s nothing more than a bad case of pretense and quirkiness.

Besides, the looks people shoot me would make a statue howl with laughter.

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