Running Until I Found Me

My hair was supposed to be the one thing I could control. Fresh cut, fresh start at Ridgefield High — that was the plan. Instead, I walked out of Supercuts looking like a broccoli emoji with anxiety issues.

"You'll grow into it," Mom had said, which is basically parent-speak for "sorry, honey, but we're not paying to fix that disaster."

So I did what any rational fifteen-year-old would do: I started running. Every morning at six, before the school bus came, before anyone could witness the crime scene on my head. Running until my lungs burned and my hair — this tragic, uneven situation — flopped into my eyes, blurring everything into manageable nothingness.

Two weeks in, I met him. A scrawny golden retriever mix with one ear that refused to stand up. We were both out there avoiding responsibilities at dawn, so clearly, we were kindred spirits. I named him Toast, because he was kind of golden and crispy around the edges.

Toast didn't care about my hair. Toast just wanted to chase leaves and lean against my legs like I was the best thing that ever happened to him, which honestly felt valid.

"That your dog?"

I looked up from where I was scratching Toast's ears. A girl from my English class stood there, track hoodie tied around her waist. Maya. The one who sat in the back and never spoke.

"No," I said. "He's just... he found me."

"Cool," she said, sitting down in the grass beside us. "I like your hair, by the way. It looks like you don't care what anyone thinks."

I laughed. "Trust me, I care. This was an accident."

"Same," Maya said, pulling at her own frizzy curls. "My hair's been having a personality crisis since birth. My mom calls it 'artistically chaotic.' I call it a bird's nest that learned math."

We talked until the sun came up — about teachers who assigned too much reading, about how high school felt like a performance we hadn't rehearsed for, about how some days you just wanted to run until everything made sense.

"Wanna run together tomorrow?" Maya asked, standing up and brushing grass off her leggings.

Toast nudged my hand with his wet nose, like he knew something I didn't.

"Yeah," I said, and I actually meant it. "I'd like that."

My hair was still a mess. But for the first time since the Great Supercuts Disaster of sophomore year, I didn't feel like running away from it. Some things aren't supposed to be fixed alone.