You die your hair. Blue and red and purple, each curl a different color. You do it so your mother will notice you. She doesn't.

When you were young your mother use to say things like, I've always wanted a little daughter, a proper ladie, and oh, isn't it nice to have another girl in the house? You felt crushed by these expectations.

...

Your parents made you play the piano – your mother, really; she stood behind you and watched your every misplaced fingers and wrong note, and she'd never say anything aloud. But late at night you'd here her yell to your father.

"Failure, can't even play the Entertainer, wasting all our money on a stupid girl, won't even listen."

You hear every word through the thin walls of you house. You still play, though. 7 years. And after that, after that last night when your mother had ranted and raved though the paper thin walls, you looked her in the eyes and told her that you couldn't play anymore, and you'd quit. You didn't tell her what you mean.
Music isn't fun or exciting or enjoyable when you can't think of anything but the hot breath of disapproval and disappointment on your neck.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss the music; you play the guitar instead,

Your mother had loved your hair, long and brown and curly, had brushed it everyday, while reading you a book, or something. In filth grade, you cut it short and kept it in a ugly ponytail just above the nape of your neck. She cried and begged you to let her brush it, brandishing a hair brush in her hands. You refuse. You grow it out though (because as much as you hated being what your mother wanted, you couldn't stop loving the sheets of hair when they hung and clung to your shoulders, and yes, maybe that sad look in you mothers eyes had something to do with it, too).

You're fine just the way you are – you are beautiful and funny and smart and kind, and yes, you are just like your mother, and that is okay, (because your mother is over-baring and forceful and pushy and has high expectations and you feel like a failure whenever you look at her, but she is also funny and smart and laughs a lot and is friendly and you here people all the time saying what a wonderful person she is) though you refuse to be her and you never wanted to be her and yet, you are and you live like her and no one says you have to – but no one told you that. You would have changed everything, everything, if anyone had let you.

It tenth grade it's long and brown and curly. Your mother never mentions how your hair is just like she wanted it. You dye it. Blue and red and purple, each curl a different color. You do it so your mum will notice. She doesn't.

You straighten it everyday, dye it blond, red, anything and she never says a word.

Your dad is your favorite. You are a daddy's girl- you bought the t-shirt, you tell it to everyone you meet, everywhere you go. And that's perfectly fair, you tell yourself, seeing as he is your only dad. (you pointedly ignore your mothers face, sad eyes and subtle wrinkles, as you walk hand-in-hand with your dad, passing her by)

You feel invisible.

But you repeat the fact that you are something, fingers flying to your green and pink curls.

You cut your cloths next.

Your mother used to try to blame you sullen behavior on your being the youngest. That was you stopped wanting to have anything to do with her.

Your skirts are always just a little bit too short and your cleavage is never fully covered; you layer your face with too tan cream and color your eyes with thick black liner that hides the fact that your eyes are just like you mothers, brown with red and gold, and you fail all your classes and drag boys into sloppy kisses – it's your way of telling the world (your mother) that you won't be the perfect daughter they want you to be.

Your mother doesn't even blink.

The moment you turn 18, you move out. You got to collage, become a therapist even though your dream was to be a teacher (yeah, that was your dream, but you choose a different path because your mother had been a teacher, and you were never going to turn into the person your mother was)

You haven't talked to your mother since you moved out.

You dye your hair brown when she dies.