Almost  six years later

I look at my odd appearance and take a deep breath. Is this really the right thing to do?

"Weslyn Fay Jones, you are an independent young woman and can do what you want!" I whisper.
I stare at myself and nod.

I look down to the pile of hair that was once mine.

I then smiled at my pale complexion in the large finger-print covered mirror.
My once strait tangled black-brown hair was now choppy neck length.

For one moment, I freaked out wondering how angry my parents could be about me cutting my hair without permission. My mom would be especially furious, she use to love playing my hair.
I almost laughed out loud. No one cares what I do in this family.

They have their life. I have mine. They can go off and do there own little super hero dances, while I paint my destructive plans like Pablo Pacoso at work.

I clean up and step out of the bathroom into my tsunami-like world.
My unobservant little brother bumps into me and shows me his teeth, "Hey
Wesly!" he cries, "You look different. Kinda funny." He thought this was hilarious and started laughing hysterically.

I just gave him a look, grab a banana, my bag, and make my way to the front door.