Running with Midnight

The hair thing started last Tuesday. I stared in the bathroom mirror, clippers buzzing in my hand like an angry hornet, and thought about how much easier life would be if I just buzzed it all off. No more conditioner calculations, no more "your hair's so pretty" comments from relatives who meant well but didn't get that I wasn't trying to be pretty. I was trying to be me.

I dropped the clippers. Whatever. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow turned into three days later, when I'm running down Oak Street because that's what I do when everything feels too loud — run until my lungs burn and my brain shuts up. Nike knows what they're doing with that "just do it" stuff.

That's when I found the dog.

Not like a cute, Instagram-worthy dog. This thing was a hot mess — matted fur, one ear that wouldn't decide whether to stand up or fold over, and the kind of eye contact that feels like it knows stuff about you. The kind of eye contact that says, "Yeah, I see you avoiding everything by running at 11 PM on a Thursday. I'm not judging, but I'm also not NOT judging."

"Hey, buddy," I said, slowing down. "You lost or something?"

The dog didn't move. Just kept looking at me like I was the weird one for talking to a stray.

"Yeah, okay, fair point."

I sat on the curb. The dog sat next to me, not touching but close enough that I could feel its warmth against my leg. We sat there while my breathing slowed down and the streetlights buzzed above us like artificial stars.

"You know what's stupid?" I said to the dog. "I keep waiting for someone to tell me who I'm supposed to be. Like there's this manual everyone else got but I missed the distribution."

The dog leaned against me. Just a little.

"And the worst part?" I kept going, because apparently stray dogs are great therapists. "I think I'm supposed to be someone's friend, but I don't even know how to be my own friend yet. Is that messed up or what?"

The dog huffed out this breathy sound that might have been a laugh, if dogs laugh.

I looked at my reflection in the dark store window behind us. Wild hair, eyes too big, posture halfway between giving up and starting over. The dog looked back at me like, "Yeah, that's you. So what?"

"So what," I repeated.

I pulled the clippers from my pocket. They'd been there since Tuesday, heavy and electric and terrifying.

"Watch this, buddy."

Buzz. A patch of hair fell to the sidewalk.

Buzz. Another patch.

The dog watched. The streetlights watched. Nobody stopped me. Nobody told me I was crazy or I'd regret it or you'll look like a boy or anything else people say when they think they own your body.

Ten minutes later, I ran my hand over my head. Fuzzy. Crooked in places. Totally, completely me.

"Alright," I said, standing up. The dog stood too. "You coming?"

We walked home together, me and my new buzz cut and this random dog who'd somehow seen more of me than my actual friends had in years. When we got to my house, the dog sat on the porch like it owned the place.

"You can't come inside," I said. "My mom will kill me."

The dog looked at my door, then back at me, with this expression that was absolutely judgment on my hospitality skills.

"Fine. Tomorrow I'll bring you food. Tonight, I've gotta go explain why I look like I joined a cult."

I went inside. My mom screamed. My dad asked if I was going through a phase. I said, "No, I'm going through me," which sounded way cooler in my head than it did out loud.

But the next morning, I walked outside with a bowl of leftover chili, and the dog was still there. Waiting. Like we had an agreement.

"Alright, Midnight," I said, because that's what I'm calling it now. "Let's be friends. But you gotta promise not to tell me how to live my life. I'm figuring that out on my own."

Midnight ate the chili like it was gourmet. I leaned back against the porch railing and touched my buzz cut, smiling at nothing and everything at once.

Running. It's not always away from stuff. Sometimes it's toward.