Orange Hair Summer

The pool deck smelled like chlorine and bad decisions—perfect for a Tuesday.

I stood there in my new swimsuit, clutching my cap like it was a grenade. My hair, formerly a respectable shade of boring brown, was now bright orange. Not natural orange, not cute orange. I looked like a traffic cone that had given up on life.

"You look... bold," said Jordan, floating in lane three with effortless grace. Jordan, who'd been on the swim team since kindergarten and whose hair somehow always looked perfect, chlorine be damned.

"My cousin talked me into it," I muttered. "She said it would be my 'summer era.'"

"Your summer era is looking like a snack?"

"That's literally not what she meant."

The truth was, I'd quit baseball last week. No dramatic story, just realized I'd been playing since age seven because my dad loved baseball, not because I did. The whole time I was out in left field picking dandelions during games, I'd been wishing I was at the pool. So I'd quit. Then I'd dyed my hair orange. Then I'd joined the summer swim league. Three weeks, three identity crises.

Now I had to learn to actually swim, which turned out to be way harder than it looked in the Olympics.

"The social pyramid at this pool is no joke," Jordan warned, gesturing toward the competitive lanes where the serious swimmers did their serious laps. "They can smell fear. And also, your hair is literally glowing, so they're going to notice you regardless."

Coach blew the whistle. I jumped in wrong and got water up my nose. Graceful. Emerging from the water with orange plastered to my forehead, I caught someone staring.

Then someone else laughed. Then someone said, "Actually, kind of iconic?"

By the end of practice, I'd swallowed half the pool, my flip turns were tragic, and Jordan had invited me to sit with them at lunch. And somewhere between the gasping for air and the orange hair disaster, I realized nobody actually cared as much as I thought they would.

"So," Jordan asked as we walked to our bikes, "baseball's over. How's the new era treating you?"

I touched my wet, ridiculous hair. "It's a start."