I stood in the girl’s bathroom, scrutinizing my appearance. I had already done almost everything I could to stand out in the Catholic high school in the small-ish town. It was so painfully bland, being forced to sit through classes in the three-story prison that couldn’t even afford air conditioning, despite the ridiculous tuition all of our parents paid.

There was a girl standing next to me, picking at her chin. I looked away and was somewhat disgusted. I took out my hair sculpting gel and tried playing with my cropped (natural) black hair. For a moment, I fantasized what it would be like to actually be able to look how I wanted:

1. Pierced ears. I was 16 years old and my ears weren’t even pierced.
2. Blue hair. I like to be noticed.
3. Ridiculous amounts of plum eyeliner. Just because.

But it seemed as if all those were discouraged, both by my family, and the society I was forced to endure. They never really liked us “artistic types” much here. Hmph.

Maybe once I get to college.