Carrie Emberlyn -

When she was a child and furious, a strand would smoke. When she was heartbroken, the copper would fade to a dull, rusted brown. When she was truly, devastatingly happy—a state she had only experienced twice—the tips would glow like the last second of a match.

The air in the room shimmered. Every single strand of her hair lifted off her shoulders and blazed a pure, silent gold. It wasn't fire. It was light. The light of a star seen up close. It lasted maybe two seconds. Then she yanked away, gasping, slapping at her own head, waiting for the smoke alarms to shriek. carrie emberlyn

The truth, which she had never told a soul, was that her hair changed with her mood. Not metaphorically. Actually. When she was a child and furious, a strand would smoke

“You have careful hands,” he said. Not “beautiful hair.” Careful hands. The air in the room shimmered

The loneliness was the worst part. Dating was a minefield. The first date was fine—curiosity, compliments. The second date was a gentle interrogation. By the third, she would inevitably find a man reaching for her hair, a certain gleam in his eye. They didn't want her. They wanted the phenomenon. She was a magic trick, not a partner.

She lived in a constant state of low-grade performance anxiety, trying to keep her emotions flatlined. She bought color-depositing conditioner in “Cinnamon Ember” and pretended it was the secret. She practiced mindfulness with the zeal of a monk, not for enlightenment, but to prevent spontaneous combustion in the middle of a quarterly review.