I have decided
as much respect as I have for the pretty girls.
I would much rather be known as
A Wild Child.
I like my hair untamed. A mass of curls and waves blowing in the wind. A plethora of shades of black and brown and tan and caramel transformed by kisses of the sun. The white that speaks to the story of my life. The story of my strength. It will not die with dye. My hair is free. Strands getting mad when I plug in the flatiron. So I smile and put it away. My hair is wild.
I like my outfits to be a kaleidoscope of ideas. Flip flops with rhinestones earrings that dangle to my shoulders. Sunflower sun dresses with muddy, hot pink, high heeled hiking boots. A swimsuit under that little black dress because who knows when the ocean will call. My look is never polished. Never makes sense. Never would be found on the cover of a fashion magazine- but I tell you what, you'll know when you look at me that I am always ready for the party. And you will crave an invitation.
Makeup- hahahaha. Nope. Lips and lashes, by which I mean mascara, that's all you need. My face is free.
As much as I respect pretty and admire the dedication that goes into maintaining such a look, it'll never be me.
You will look at me and think-
What has this one been up to now?
Why does her meeting skirt have an imprint of a two piece?
Her eyelashes can't be real but her eyes look like she just rolled out of bed (I did)...
Why is she wearing 6 inch heels with a tattered hoodie?
I
Don't
Need
To
Make
Sense
To
You.
I likely won't.
You will think- that girl is a hot mess
and your internal danger signals will chime.
and then you will come closer anyway.
Because who doesn't love fire?
We hang beautiful things because we enjoy the view.
We cage wild things because we are both fascinated and frightened by them.
I'll take your respect over your admiration any day.
and yes,
I do bite.
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