I casually am acquainted with a woman whose hair is snow white, like a bunny-fur muff, like a June cloud, like pearls.

She dyes her hair carrot orange, like an Arizona sunset, like faded rust, like the chubby fruit called cuties.

I see her periodically in the way you see a cashier at your grocery store who you don’t know but you recognize as known to you. I conclude, with little evidence to support this, that her hair is her self-o-meter.

Fresh dyed, her head looks like a meteor come to earth. She emits static and glow and is very quippy with razzmatazz one-liners and such like that. Fast forward to the growing out of white roots, her head looks a scoop of melting sherbet, drippy; and she’s as glum as a Monday commute. It’s difficult not to console her.

I conclude she’s in conflict with her vivacious self and her mature self, as if those selves are separate. I conclude that one day I’ll chance upon her wearing her entire head of fluffball white hair in full sail, vivacious and mature and fully herself; fire-y and just as fine as she can be.