Today I am 17. I am wearing gray leggings that were accidentally delivered to me. I am wearing a pullover from the Goodwill on the side of Route 18 and a green tee shirt from the Thanksgiving soccer tournament. I was wearing a dark green almost blue beanie to cover my crazy hair day but it’s too hot in Texas. I hope I am not depressed. I hope I don’t qualify as bipolar. I think it would just be too much. If I am, it already feels like too much. I am listening to The 1975’s new album. My hair is all different colors. I tell time by how far the lightness is from my scalp, because the lightness is summer. The hair closest to my scalp is dark, almost black. It fades to a lighter brown, the one I developed during the warm “fall” months- my first “cold” season in Texas. The brown burns into a blond, my curls going wild and turning gold when the light hits them. I think people think it looks like a bad, grown out dye job, or like a weeks worth of dirt, oil, work and worries built up to others, but I don’t think I care. I know that it is the past few months of my life, the almost ginger red color from late last year, the black from my 17th birthday, the bleach preceding the hot pink (sexy eraser shavings) back to dark brown at the dawn of the summer in the purple bedroom, and then into chlorine, salt and hours spent on park benches and pool chairs reading, my hair bathing in the sun. Now it’s this. Almost like Agnes Varda’s, but not nearly as awesome. Maybe I won’t dye it back to dark.