As the bleach fried her dark brown locks, she felt free. Her hair was washed and scrubbed by the salon tech, whose nails would scrape her scalp so pleasantly. And when the dye was put into her hair, bringing pink hues dancing off the walls, she wanted to cry out in joy. Because the little girl from that summer was no longer there, nor had she been left behind. She had now become "mature" and "seasoned" after eradicating the very thing that made her. She left the salon feeling like she knew it all, but she didn't.