(18) J. Bradley: Rebel, Rebel
My mother was so proud that I wanted to dye my hair a different color. We used the money my grandparents gave me for cutting my hair to buy the blue hair dye from Infinite Mushroom, Orlando’s then-premier headshop.
I sat outside, shirtless, as my mom massaged the blue hair dye into my scalp, brushing the dye down each strand of my hair. Don’t touch, she said, smiling. Once the dye dried, I walked inside and marveled at how my blue hair brought out my blue eyes, one of the only things I liked about myself.
The next morning, I woke up and showered. I put on my black denim shorts and a black Pulp Fiction t-shirt. I walked to the bus stop in the dark of the morning, as usual, and went to school.
I ignored the laughter, as usual. I was used to being made fun of walking like a duck, for picking my nose when I was nervous, for looking like Stewart from Beavis and Butthead. I ignored the laughter until someone said what’s up, Papa Smurf? I ran to the bathroom and stared at my light blue stained face and light blue stained cheeks and my light blue stained hands. My mother never warned me to not shower after dyeing my hair and I wondered whether this was another one of her lessons to teach me to take it like a man.
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