I dye my hair purple to
say something about
myself, using color 
as a statement, a
definition of sorts. I 
have the choice to use 
it, to pay for it and have 
a nice conversation with
the colorist, my
linguist, giving me a 
language of my own. 
It includes words like
“rebel” and “artist” and
probably “democrat”
though it has nothing 
to do with my politics. 
I don’t mind. They 
describe me, after all,
but don’t define 
me. They don’t limit
what I’m able to say. 
I can supplement with
my voice, my tongue 
twisting air bravely 
into syllables that say
I’m sensitive and shy
and kind. The language
of my hair conflicts,
actually, with my 
demeanor. It makes
me at once bold and
reticent, vivid and 
mellow, unhindered and
subdued. Color says 
something about every
person, but doesn’t 
contain the whole. 
Who I see hears 
differently than I say
or scream loud over 
what others think I
listen, communication 
scrambled and the 
power to feel confused
in the moment. 
Stop. 
Hear my color, see
my story, the me behind
all the words and 
visual aids, and I will
do for you, as we are
all given our own
languages to pluck 
from the grass and gather
like bouquets, the
hardest part being
to listen.