Deep yearning inside my chest that I usually try to chalk up to heartburn had returned. At 11:03 AM, it made its presence known like an unsatisfiable itch. Days flew by with the summer warmth.

Desperation ensued as weeks dragged on. This stranger, who I refused to identify as a friend, was here to stay.

Groans from the growing monster far inside me escaped. Through reckless actions, I found the source: change. My skin itched, yes, out of comfortability. Everything was too serene, too perfect, and too much of the same.

Scissors and damaged hair became my medium as my fingers moved with satisfaction. Each cut radiated perfect precision that called upon whatever lay inside me.

The beaten down turquoise trash can in the corner harbored a farm of discarded ends.

Yet it wasn’t enough.

The river of monstrous craving still ran deep inside me, washing away at the rocky shoreline. Sandy walls caved in, and it took over the command of my brain. Hushed away, my senses were blinded, and I found myself obeying.

Down the commercially lighted aisles of Walmart, the stranger inside reached out. Grabbing ahold of control of my arm, it guided my spindly fingers to a box. At its mercy, the box was in the cart, and my feet were moving on.

Once the monster was asleep, I read the box: hair dye. Did I even want to dye my hair?

No, I needed to.

The faucet spits out cold water as if in rebuttal to my decisions, and the dye is unpacked. Gloves seal my actions as they coat my fingers in regret. A cherry black, the box claims to romanticize the color, tremendously transforming my brown, though some would argue ginger, hair while it stains my porcelain white tub.

After a few washes, my hair had taken on a new persona. Mirrors examined my new appearance day in and day out no matter how hard I avoided them. Their reflective glares revealed the cold truth.

I had not changed.

As if on cue, the old friend deep inside had returned.