Blonde

I am a blonde again. Still with dark eyebrows and pools of chestnut eyes; though not tear-stricken anymore. Still with freckles adorning my cheeks, no longer tainted by tender and hollow under eyes. I am blonde again, and I am medicated. On Tuesday I drove back from Washington, D.C. with a few of my hometown girls. After two nights of celebrating life and screaming like our younger, teenage selves, I remembered that I haven’t felt a sharp, restless pang of anticipation or fear for a longtime. My throat has not felt desperate for air, my stomach forgot what it feels like to twist into unyielding knots. I laugh with my friends, the kind of bottomless laugh that comes straight from the belly. I do not feel an emptiness in the room, a missing piece to my own puzzle. I am content, I am restless, I am alive, I am free. I wake up to the aroma of coffee beans and pollen. My nose stuffy from the flowery air. I am in a music slump. I am starting my new reporting internship in a week, a more comfortable fit than the halls of Capitol Hill last summer. I am a senior in college now. I completed a semester abroad in Europe. I still ache in sore places and love on my friends relentlessly. My room is messy right now, but I know I am going to clean it. I am wearing capris jeans my mom gave to me and a pale yellow cami. I have been listening to a lot of Chappell Roan. Summer has returned and so have I. This time unburdened—unshackled. And blonde again. I dyed and chopped the pieces of my old self away, shoved her anxiety and embarrassment far in a closet. Distanced myself as far as I could from the girl I was at 19. Injuries, death, betrayal, heartache. But I am blonde again, hair grown out, and cherishing the grief and pain that has now blossomed into wisdom and strength. I understand the necessity of scrapes and bruises now. I am blonde again, and I look into the mirror and see her. Two and a half years later, and I smile when I see her. I am blonde again, and as corny as it is, I am me again.