The reflection in the mirror showed me a woman in full metamorphosis. The latex gloves, stained a fiery red, gripped the brush, while unruly locks were tamed and sprinkled with color. A silent alchemy was taking place in the bathroom at home, transforming my usual brown into an explosion of copper.
Every brushstroke was an act of courage, a step towards a new me. I felt the tingle of color on my scalp, a tingling that awakened not only my hair, but also something inside me. The air was thick with the pungent smell of dye, a scent I associated with change and reinvention.
Looking at my reflection, I saw a woman who dared, who was not afraid to stand out. The bright red was a symbol of passion, of energy, of a vitality that perhaps I had held back too much. It was a silent cry, an affirmation of self that went beyond words.
As I waited for the dye to take effect, I felt like a work of art in progress. I was eager to see the final result, but also grateful for this moment of inti
