The Truth is Redheads Have More Fun
When we were married, he never wanted me to be too bright or noticeable, in anyone’s line of vision.
When I left him, I dyed my hair the color of a new penny and reminted myself a fire-engine-haired siren queen.
Several years later, every few months, I sit back in the stylist’s chair and replenish the redness, rise again like Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” from my ocean of memories, old and new all at once.
The best money I ever spent, a few hours of transformation and then, walking down the streets of the nation’s capital, completely in my element, turning heads with my head of blazing curls and unfinished, yet-to-be-lived dreams.
Later, my lover tangles his fingers in my locks of red as he kisses me, cupping my cheekbones, completely washing away any lingering thoughts of my lukewarm marriage with his mouth and body against mine.
