I don’t want to seem frazzled or hungry, but the way you’ve amputated parts of me to solve your mood swings unnerves me. You never asked me if I preferred my blond dirty coils, which were so long everyone noticed. They call me dry now. Bleached and removed. Bold, but someone else’s version of who I should be. You never ask. I love when you lose your fingers inside me. Remember how lonely I get when the wind is not around to tousle me. Or the sun is hidden behind clouds or Winter and I’m cold. You cover me, sometimes, but not often enough. You never ask. You never asked when you changed my complexion to blue, orange (a mistake), pink, green (intentional, but still a mistake). And red. You insist on controlling me with scissors. You think you understand me better than I do. But you never ask. I look terrible in bangs; please stop cutting them into me. If I was meant to be shaved, I wouldn’t keep growing back. You. Never. Ask. Maybe it’s time you did.