Green Hair On The Green Line
Green is the color of the grass surrounding me and the only color that has ever felt like home. I pay ten dollars a bottle to come home to myself. I spend thirty minutes every other week painting these light brown strands with lies so that I no longer recognize the person looking back at me. Gone are the days of being told I look like every blonde celebrity from the early 2000s.
Now instead of receiving compliments, I just confuse people. I cause men on the red line to become lost in thought as they wonder out loud why I would ever dye my hair this color. One of the conductors on the Metra is convinced I must be Irish, but his coworker believes I dyed my hair the color of money. I’m just trying to reflect the rich. Sometimes, I am just referred to as “the hair.” While other times, I just make people worry. Older women look at me with years of concern pouring out of their eyes and gently ask if I’m worried about all of the damage I am doing to my hair. I wish I could ask them if they ever worry about all of the damage their judgment is causing, but I always hold my tongue.
I do not dye my hair green for Halloween or St. Patrick’s Day. Yes, this is my hair color, and no it will not rinse out tomorrow. Maybe my hair is too green, or maybe you are just an asshole. I think either one is a viable option. Now, I can be the cool teacher with the green hair. I can be remembered for more than my crooked teeth. When someone needs me, they will not have to ask for the one with the messed up teeth; they can just ask for the girl with hair the color of money instead. They can ask for the girl who is probably Irish. They can finally remember to ask for me. They can finally remember me.
The man on the train told me I should bottle this color and sell it. It’s my own custom mix, but I would be lying if I told you there was any precision to this formula. Electric Lizard, Voodoo Blue, and honestly, any other blue hue I have on hand will always do. I don’t put much thought into what I am mixing as I create it; this is the most I have ever been able to let go. There is no perfect recipe or ultimate goal I am trying to achieve. I just want to create something to be remembered by. If I don’t have a recipe, then I have nothing to live up to. There are no expectations other than green. I cannot judge myself for not creating the perfect green because the perfect green does not exist. I can finally breathe because I am living in a world where perfection does not exist. No one will know if this color is wrong because there will never be another color to compare it to that was right. For the first time in twenty-something years, I don’t have to focus on being right. I think this might be what freedom feels like.
When I walk outside, I look at the trees and know that they understand me. I am more like them than I have ever been like all of the people around me. Sturdy, yet stuck in place. Put somewhere against their will and filled with imperfections they will just have to learn how to live with. Sometimes, they get sick, and they recover. Other times, they remain in that illness forever. They are home for so many other people, but do we really know if they ever do anything for themselves? They are the reason we are all alive, but they never ask for a thank you. They never raise their hands when asked if anyone needs help. They just sit there, stoic and peaceful. They are stronger than they look, but stubborn, too, with roots planted so firmly into the ground, we may never know how deep they go. They are so much more than what we see on the surface, yet how often do you take the time to really look at them? Do you ever wonder how that notch in their back got there, or do you simply pass them by, obliviously?
This is the hair that makes boys on the green line fall in love. Green hair on the green line. It’s fate. I often wonder if the girl you met on the red line had red hair and if this is just the line you use on everyone. If I dye my hair to match every train in this city, maybe I could make all of you fall in love. Maybe I will create an experiment and see how easy it is to manufacture fate. If I place myself in the right place at any time, won’t that be the right time for someone? Maybe someone will sit across from me and think, “There she is. Pink hair on the pink line. It’s fate.” I will observe and take notes and come to the conclusion that anything could be fate if we wanted it to be. As long as your mind is still thinking, fate is still a possibility.
To color correct green, you need red. I spend one hour painting Vampire Red over the streaks of green you left me with. I am doing my best to destroy the only memento you left me, but these colors won’t neutralize so easily. The green can’t get up and walk away; the red cannot pretend that its only purpose is not to hide the past. The two should be harmonious, but they are at war. No matter how many layers I try to bury you under, you always come back begging for more. Two weeks of bliss, followed by an undetermined time full of pain. Every time the water slides down these strands, their facade is stripped away. Little hints of green bloom here and there, and sometimes, I get so mad I think about cutting it all off. But then, I am reminded of the way the trees come back every year, even when Autumn and Winter have us all fooled that this is the end. The leaves may go red, and the branches barren, and every time it feels like nothing will ever change, the smallest bit of green comes to greet us.
The blooms, they will be back again.
