Lovely summer art by :Chiffawndue:

Most days I wake up with many locks of my own lavender mane draped over my eyes.
After a hot shower that calms every part of me, I squeegee the mirror to reveal a mane of forest green.
If my playlist gets me singing as I brush out the tangles, a warm gold melts from my roots to the tips.
I always hope to keep it that way, smiling and wreathed in sunflower yellow. That’s unrealistic of course.
The thought of failure alone can sometimes turn a lock bright blue. I just tuck it away.
If I spend too long primping, my stomach growls and some tufts in my beard switch to maroon.
A good plate of French toast and sausage paints them leaf green.
I’ve taken to podcasts on my walk to the subway. The results are different every day.
Something new in space or science: I catch a splash of orange as I pass a glass storefront.
Depressing story about child slavery or global warming: a lock or two of indigo in the subway window.
A joke I haven’t heard: a shock of pink even if I don’t laugh out loud.
I get to work and try to keep myself surrounded in the colors of a sunset.
Yellows, oranges, and shades of salmon are good.
Blues, cyans, grays and browns mean I’m thinking too much or not thinking enough.
Black serves well if things get busy.
I hate when my boss calls on me and I have to check my compact for a streak of white.
Yes, I carry a compact mirror. No, it’s not because I’m gay. I have to keep an eye on this mane.
It’s gotten me in trouble before.
“Marius, are you even listening? Your weird hair’s gone all gray.”
“Aye! Got a sec Simba? Wait, why is your beard all red? Is something wrong?”
“Hey Marius, I’ve noticed whenever Zen tells a joke or stretches, you get these locks of purple.
What’s that about?”
Of course, my colleagues would figure out part of the code eventually.
I do my best to keep it vague.
Sure, every hair on my head gives away everything I’m feeling but not in language anyone speaks.
Trust me, I’ve thought of cutting this whole thing off.
Sure, it would be a fiasco at home.
I’m already at the verge of queer critical mass.
Imagine if they thought I was teasing with the look of a lioness.
No, I don’t really care about that much.
Truth is, I like my mane.
It keeps me honest.
It helps me understand moments I often don’t know how to process.
And sometimes it’s just…beautiful.
I’ve read novels before and watched movies, curled up on my couch, absorbing every varied emotion from the writers and characters they create. I cry and laugh and grip the armrests with fear. Then I turn to my mirror and watch the dazzling rainbow array play out.
How many animals can see what they feel?
Isn’t that worth something?
I’d rather let my mane make me a bit of a weirdo than live a life not surrounded by colors.
I go home every night and brush my teeth, framed by a mane of lavender and deep green.
I get in bed and lay for a while.
Sometimes, a lock on the empty pillow beside mine seems blue, but it may be the low light.