Wednesday, May 14, 2014

//blue, a story of gradients and growth

I was given an assignment in school recently. It was a list of "Are you more like...?" with a list of options. My assignment was to pick one, and do a creative writing project with it. 
The following is my choice, and the piece I wrote to go along with it. 

Are you more like… yellow or blue?
I am blue.

Imagine a gradient from black to blue to white. It is a range of emotion, of feelings. From deep and sad and dark, to light and bright and happy, to everything in between. Each colour is a different memory, from different, various, and scattered parts of life.

Starting in black, in the deepest and darkest moments, in the middle of a moonless night. A 2am sky hearing the screams of nightmares. A sleepless girl slipping out her window in the middle of the summer to lay on the grass and stare at the pinhole stars in the fabric sky, counting them until she feels the sobs subside and exhaustion take over, until she goes back inside, curling up in dark blankets and slipping into a restless sleep in the black of a midnight sky.

Next there is a dusty Phthalo blue, the colour of the dress spotted with daisies worn to her Grandfather’s memorial service, the colour of the flowers atop the casket, the colour of the ill-fitting jacket her father wears. It is the colour of the heavy, hot air, laden with tears and the potent feeling of loss. It is the colour of the sweatshirt she took from her grandfather’s closet when no one was looking, and wears when she misses him the most, curled up in the musty, worn warmth that still smells like him, if she closes her eyes, pictures him, and thinks hard enough.

The grey blue denim that comes next is the shade of the transitions, the faded jeans worn daily, the hems walked off and the rips from numerous trips and falls. It’s the colour of moving on and moving forward. She slips them on, ties up the worn converse, and steps out into the early morning. The grey blue sky, the grey blue jeans, the grey blue girl. It’s the colour before the depression, before the pain and bad memories, before the nightmares. It’s the colour of innocence and no regrets, of childishness and happiness. It’s the colour she misses most.

She touches the cerulean of the lake that comes next. It’s a bittersweet colour, as she dangles her toes above the water as the sailboat cuts through. The water reflects the sky reflects the water. These are the careless and carefree summer days, where all four of them convene on the decks, with non-marking soles, shorts, and life jackets. Sitting in the shade of the jib, smiling into the wind, she almost feels like she doesn’t want to cry.

Next is another boat, another sky. It’s light turquoise, speckled with clouds, and hot. Instead of four on the boat, there’s six, the girl and her sister, the two brothers that are her cousins, and two brothers that are her uncle and father. This blue is pure joy, a short but much-needed break from the dark nights. It’s Christmas, but it feels like summer, with the happiness and the sun and the heat and the boat. This colour is cookies and oranges in the middle of the ocean, Dr. Pepper and Sprite. It’s adventure and bravery and freedom in a bittersweet mix. 

Our penultimate blue is the colour of the shirt of the nine-month-old that crawls as best he can on the soft carpeting. It matches her blue-green hair, and the patterns on his blanket. He’s fussy, and tired. Wrapped up in his blanket, she pulls him onto the chair, and he writhes, wriggles, then settles down, tiredness overcoming, as he falls asleep tucked under her chin. This colour is the shade of that kind of exhaustion that comes after a wonderful day, where sleep comes with a smile, and pleasant dreams float through baby blue skies. He sleeps, dressed in blue, wrapped in blue.

The final blue is Alice blue, the blue of wonderland, of early morning skies. Though this blue is rare, it is most often seen after our first shade of blue, after the deepest and darkest moments. After the sleepless nights and the moonless skies, the nightmares and tears. It’s the colour signalling the dawn of a new day, of the blankets she wraps herself in as the sun rises, kissing the treetops. It’s the colour of a 5am card game with her grandpa, unknowingly one of their last. It’s the colour of boat shoes and wrapping paper. It’s one of the most integral colours of our lives, the most important feeling.

It’s the colour of hope.

Friday, July 26, 2013



What. A. Summer! I just got back from Worldview Academy, my third consecutive year at the best week of my life! There's no camp like it on the planet, it's true.

I titled this journeywork, and I got this from a lecture I had this week at Worldview Academy. We had a lecture about defining art through a Christian worldview, an important part of it being the fine balance between form and content. If it has neither form nor content, it might as well be dirt cake, total garbage. When a piece has high form (it looks really good, written or painted with high talent) but low content (really bad writing, a bad painting or item, etc.), it's like dirt cake, all pretty on the outside but absolutely terrible when you bite into it. The best works are highest in both content and form. The cover of the book is awesome, the writing is fantastic; the painting is well done and the image is fantastic, etc.
But a journeywork is halfway between. The form isn't amazing, but the content matters; for example, if I sing "Amazing Grace" and my voice is terrible. The content is worship-centered, facing towards God, and uplifting and wonderful, while the form (my voice) is not as well. It's your apprenticeship towards the ultimate goal: worship.
Your journeywork is working towards your ultimate goal. I hope that my journeywork will take me far. And I hope you all find your Journeyworks as well! I hope you can all be discerning in your art: where is it on the art spectrum? 'Art' doesn't mean just paintings, etc. This can be used for books, movies, artwork, photos, television shows... pretty much anything you consume (even food!) can be 'graded' on this spectrum. I hope you use it, and don't eat dirt cake ;)

Sunday, June 23, 2013

i can only hope

It is officially summer! Yay!
The last day of school was tough for me. June 20th marked the last day I would be a student at the school I've been attending for the past few years. It was a tough decision, one that hurt. The last time I'd left a school, I'd been given the promise that I'd see these people again, empty words to comfort a hurting 5th grader. The time before, I was oblivious, little 2nd grader me thrilled at the prospect of homeschooling.
But because I'd been at this school for so long, I'd created connections with a few people I love and have come to appreciate. Not many people, but enough to make me cry. After playing at graduation and saying goodbye to my adopted older brother, I walked out into the pouring rain and cried and cried and cried.

While I was told, "Don't worry, I'll see you again", "We'll stay in touch", and "We'll always be friends, I promise", a side of me embraces that hope, that silly feeling of "I can't lose these people, surely". But I've lost enough friends while being there that it seems fleeting, and there was a side of me that kept saying, "You won't see them again. You won't see them again. You won't see them again. They don't care that much. You won't see them again."
 I'm reassuring myself that I will. I've made some good friendships and some wonderful memories with some gorgeous and fantastic people.
 I'll hopefully still visit. I'll go to concerts and performances and stay in touch with people.
I can only hope 

Friday, May 31, 2013

An Opinion

"My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations."


"You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I am grateful."

"Some infinities are bigger than other infinities."

"That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt."

If you were able to name the book from which those quotes were from, I'm impressed. The book is The Fault in our Stars, by John Green, which I read the other day. Well, not the whole thing. I'll get there.

Basically, Hazel is a girl who has been diagnosed with a terminal lunch cancer and a thyroid cancer, stage IV since she was thirteen. She goes to a kind of rehab group, where a bunch of kids from 12-17 years old meet up to talk about their cancer and some such. One day this kid named Isaac--he has a rare eye cancer, one eye is glass and he has a girlfriend--brings another boy with him named Augustus Waters, an osteosarcoma survivor with a leg and a half. Sparks fly, and Hazel and Augustus (Gus) are soon exchanging books. An Imperial Affliction is Hazel's favourite, and she gives it to Gus to read. They both love it. The book literally ends mid sentence, and they are both intrigued to how it ends, and so they set off on a quest to find the author, now residing in Amsterdam.

That's about as far as I got. A big reason was because sickness books made me depressed, more than usual. The writing was fantastic, sucking emotions away. In short, John Green is brilliant. But having known multiple people (some close to me) having suffered through cancer. He doesn't lighten the subject. He really brings a sadness and a heaviness to carrying the burden of cancer. But there were some things I didn't like and that didn't sit well with me.

Because of the whole, "We might die, so let's live life as it comes," soon turned into fooling around and having sex. Nothing was explicit but definitely was implied. It was a little disturbing and didn't sit well with me. The whole, "We're dying so let's have sex!" was disturbing and just plain weird. There was a bit of language too.

There were some very quotable parts of the book. Isaac and his girlfriend always say, "Always," in response to each other, as a promise that no matter what happens, they'll stay together. (**Spoiler**, because of his cancer, Isaac goes blind and so his girlfriend broke up with him, breaking his heart.). Gus and Hazel use "Okay," as their "Always", so it's put up everywhere in relation to the book.

In conclusion, the book was very well written, but it was disturbing enough that after the first mention of sex, I knew the book couldn't get much better, and with sickness books, there's always a relapse, and someone always dies. If the book was so well written that it was making me feel sad just from reading it, then when said character dies (no spoilers!), it couldn't be much better, especially-- alright, I'll stop. Bottom line, well written but to me, it wasn't worth it.

Three out of Five stars.
Disclaimer: No one asked me to do this. It's out of my own will. :)

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Misplaced~A short story

Misplaced~2942 words
We parted ways after this.
But I met him again, you know. He later joined Janet’s rebellion against the crown, and after I got together with the people I had apparently called friends years before, we joined up with the rebellion. I had no idea that the innocent bartender became a part of it.
He told me that he joined the rebellion because I had shown him that there was more to life than tending to drunks all day and most of the night, and something about fighting for freedom boosted his morale more than cleaning the same wear-worn counters day after day.

He said it jokingly, but I knew that deep down, he really meant it. I could tell.

I shocked awake to the sound of sixteen once-suspended aluminum barstools clattering to the ground all at once. Startled out of slumber, I fell off the couch I had sprawled on, thudding to the floor painfully. Groaning, I rolled over, burying my head in the crook of my arms.
“Hey.” I felt the toe of his boot nudge into my side. “Girl!” His voice came to me sharply and painfully. I lifted my eyes to squint at the boots in front of me.
“Yeah?” I sounded hung over. I felt hung over too. Not like I could easily get liquor with the prohibition underway, and besides, I’m underage.
“You fell asleep on my couch.” The voice tried to sound condescending but it didn’t work. 
“I did.” It came out as more of a statement than a question, a self-assurance. “And then I fell down on your floor.”
A fading, “Whatever” announced his retreat, and clang after clang followed. Squinting, I saw him pick up the silver discs from the ground. He seemed familiar, with thick brown hair and a broad-shouldered build. But I don’t even know this guy. Where am I anyway?
Slowly, the day before came rushing back—the arrival in the town, the shoddy bar, strange technology, the slow realization that today’s date lies a good five thousand years ahead of my last memory.
The nice bartender— what’s his name? Right, Vasher—had given me tea and told me to rest on his couch. Obviously, sleep had overcome.
 I pushed myself to a sitting position and pushed my blonde curls from my face, the initial fogginess of sleep lifting as I rested my back against the leather couch. The bartender finished picking up the once-floating seats and dropped them into a small bin to get them ready for the next day.
“Magnets, right?” I didn’t know much about science but I knew enough that the aluminum floated not by magic, but by opposite magnetic poles keeping them at once place. “They’re held up by magnets on the floor.”
“Yup. I told you that last night.” Vasher moved behind the counter and started wiping various spills, vomit, and crumbs from the shiny metallic surface.
“You did?”
“Yeah. You were kind of—“ he gestured at me— “confused.” Well, yeah, I travelled five thousand years into the future, of course I’m confused. I bit back the sarcastic comment and stood. I still wore the underpinnings that I had showed up in yesterday, corset and petticoats. My feet, now bare, looked bruised and bloody in some places, the cement floor burning cold against them. I shivered and pulled my arms close to me, rubbing my bare shoulders up and down.
A heavy, fuzzy blanket covered my shoulders and I turned to see Vasher draping it over me, eyes averted. I pulled it around my torso and turned to face him. “Oh, thanks.”
He slouched away. “You should probably leave. You can keep the blanket.”
“Why?” I plopped down on the couch, holding the blanket close. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Or money.” Or anything or anyone, I add in my head.
“Well, the bar is kind of—“ he coughed— “closed.”
I opened my mouth to protest— there had been light streaming in through the windows before, and surely I couldn’t have slept for that long. Then again, why would Vasher be closing the bar in the first place?
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Seriously?!” I had no working watch to compare the time to. “Sorry. I had no clue.” I plopped back down onto the couch. “Can I maybe just… stay here tonight? I’ll be out first thing in the morning.” I have no friends in this city.
But I think I do.
“I suppose…” Vasher hesitated. His tense face reflected inner turmoil. “Just tonight though. And you’ll have to be out early in the morning.”
I leapt up, the blanket falling softly from my shoulders. “Really?! Thank you!” I looked up at him.
“Yeah whatever.” He did a double take, and stepped closer to me, his eyes on mine. “Woah, your eyes… What’s wrong with them?”
I sighed. “I don’t know.” I looked down. They had always looked like this— the entire eye was white, with a slim orange ring around the black pupil, and one line going from the pupil to where three would be on a clock. I pushed past him, head down, eager to change the subject. “Do you want me to help with anything?”
“Here.” Vasher handed me a broom. “Thanks. Oh, and who are you exactly?”
I took the broom. “My name is Zotia.” I held out a hand, which he took, shaking it strongly as I took the broom.
“You didn’t, but that’s alright. Nice to meet you. I’m Vasher, as you know, because I actually introduced myself last night.” He smiled teasingly as he went around the counter and started washing dishes. “How’d you get here?”
I started sweeping. “I don’t really know. I woke up in the river behind your bar and kind of let myself in. I don’t remember much from before that.” I left out the whole “Hey, I’m five thousand years old!” bit. It could be creepy.
“From the river?” Vasher paused in the middle of washing out a mug and glanced behind him as if the river raged on the wall facing him. His eyes went wide and he looked back at me. “That’s quite a walk.”
“It really is not that bad. Only a mile or so.” I pulled the broom along the worn floorboards, piling a day’s worth of dirt and crumbs. I hated talking about myself, so I changed the subject. “Do you run this bar all by yourself?”
“Yeah, my parents are off running the bar’s counterpoint in Demeda. I’m supposed to run this with my older brother but—“ he shrugged. “He joined the army and was killed shortly after, about three years ago.”
I stopped in the middle of sweeping, looking up at this boy, bent over the sink, soft brown eyes hollow with grief, full of unshed tears, calloused, angry knuckles white with frustration. I stared at his reflection in the wall lined with mirrors. Pity and a strange empathy came over me. I know this feeling. I know his pain.
But how?
I opened my mouth, sucking a breath to transform to apology, when a knocking came from the door.
Rap rap rap.
“What was that?”
I leapt up from my barstool as Vasher dashed around the counter and grabbed a hidden six-shooter from the drawer. “I don’t know but he— or she— could be dangerous. This isn’t a safe town.”
The gentle knocking increased in tempo. “Anyone there? I missed the curfew and— ah! help me!”
Vasher slowly undid the locks as I ducked behind the counter. He whipped open the door till the chain jerked it to a stop. “Who are you?” His voice held a quavering but strong ferocity.
“I’m Aedan, help me!” I couldn’t see much of the boy whose voice edged between ‘frantic’ and ‘crazy’, just a shock of bright red hair that never stayed still.
The name registered.
I know this kid.
A sudden  rush of disjointed memories: The red hair bobbing through a forest.
C’mon Zee! Betcha I can’t get there first!
  A strange camraderie revolving around… thievery?

“Vasher!” My harsh whisper. “Vasher! Let him in!”
He turned and gave me the ‘Are you crazy?!’ look. “Why?!”
“He’s okay! I have a feeling.” I smiled reassuringly.
“So I should let him in on a whim? On a feeling?”
“He seems safe enough!” I mean, he seemed like a hyperactive redhead. How much trouble could he bring? “And I know him!”
‘HEY! Let me in! They’ll kill me!” The red head was bouncing up and down.
Vasher sent me a wide eyed ‘SEE?! HE COULD BE DANGEROUS,’ look.
A mouthed back: Hyperbole, Vasher.”
“Fine then.” He slammed the door, undoing the chain and opening it again, the redheaded boy slipping inside.
“Gosh thanks!” The boy leaned against the door, hand over his heart, sucking in deep breaths. “That was close!” And that’s when I knew. I know him.
“What was?” Vasher re-locked the door.
“Aedan?” I came around the counter. We are dangerous.
“Hey, don’t I know you? Zotia, right?” Aedan leaned forward and skipped towards me. “You seem—“
“Familiar…” We finished in tandem, and that’s when I realized his eyes were exactly like mine, just in a fascinating shade of chartreuse.
“Your eyes are just like mine…” I barely whispered the words. “Have we—”
And then chaos interrupted.

I’ve replayed the next few minutes over and over in my head, and to this day, I cannot pinpoint what exactly happened. I remember screams, shattered glass, gunshots.
They’re after us. Me and Aedan.
There was biting pain and something about blood and bullets, a panicked screech from Aedan and yells from Vasher. I ducked behind the counter but could not miss the first rain of bullets screaming in from the window and shattering the mirror-lined wall opposite. Glass flew everywhere, glinting in the cold moonlight. With the light glancing off the shards, there might have been beauty, but it lost itself in the chaos of the moment.
There’s only one gun. Machine, automatic.
And then, just as abruptly, the loud reign of silence.
Are we the targets? What do we have?
“ZOTIA! They’ve come for us! Run run! Go!” Aedan, dragging me through the rubble, screamed, shouted, frantic.
“What do they need us for?”
“It’s best you don’t know!” Fear widened his eyes as he pulled me to my feet. He set his hands on my shoulders. “Now go!”
And with that he pushed me out the door.
“Don’t interact with anyone! If you’re still alive tomorrow night, come back here!” With that comforting advice from Aedan, I stumbled into the street, scanning left to right, hesitant. The door slammed behind me and I jumped, all senses hyper-alert. I glanced a shadow shifting at the entrance to an alleyway. There! I took off running, flying down the street away the dark blot that I saw, when a hand appeared from nowhere and grabbed my shoulder, clapping over my mouth, trapping me. I flailed and kicked, but the efforts grew futile in the heavy skirts and restraining corset. Heel met shin, evoking a sharp yelp of pain, but the iron grip didn’t let up. “Stay still!”
The cold circle of a pistol met my temple and it sent a shot of cold fear through my spine, straight to my toes. “Don’t. Move.”
I went limp, rendered helpless, hopeless. I doubt Aedan or Vasher had followed me out or seen me taken. A thousand scenarios for escape flashed through my mind but none of them seemed likely or very optimistic.
I felt searing pain through my temple, and then all spiralled into black.
Duct tape around my wrists, ankles and mouth.

I opened my eyes, but my head hurt, aching dully.
“Ah! She’s awake.”
RIP. The duct tape came off my mouth and a swell of pain followed. “Ah, ow!” I stretched my mouth wide, pain receding. Slowly, I opened my eyes, and came face to face with—
Shocking, cold white. It had few imperfections. Splotches of blood—of mine, I decided to assume (not surprising, considering the shoot-out earlier), and one person, my kidnapper. A woman.
She wore all black corset, a short skirt, knee boots. Dark, dirty, straggled hair hung matted to her waist. Her back faced me.
I laid on a table in seemingly, the middle of the room. “Wh-where am I? Who are you?”
“I don’t matter.” She turned around. A torn veil covered her face, but she seemed younger than I’d initially thought—perhaps my age. “You’re safe, and I won’t hurt you.” And cue afterthought. “Anymore.”
“Can you let me go? Why do you have me?” I wriggled on the table, uncomfortable.
“Because you know things.” She grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back. I let out a yell of pain.
“Like what?!”
“How this town runs. Patrols, what is legal, who comes in and out, trading routes.” She leaned close and whispered in my ear. “And you know the red-head boy.”
“No I don’t! I don’t remember anything past these last 24 hours! And the boy just walked in and I don’t know him—Ah!” I let out another yell as she pulled my hair tight before letting it go.
“You don’t? Oh.” Disappointment lay potent in her words. “Nothing?”
“No! Nothing! I woke up yesterday and remembered nothing, and I woke up this morning and still remember nothing, so if you want information you’ll have to go elsewhere!” Anger built until the last words I practically shouted. I took a deep, calming breath. “So can you please let me go?” I struggled to sit, my headache fading.
“I’ll untie you, I suppose.” She moved behind me and started sawing at the duct tape. “But I’m not letting you out. I have some more… questions.” She moved to my feet as I rubbed feeling back into my wrists.
And that’s when my opportunity came.
I shot my feet forward, catching her right in the nose. Her head jerked backwards and she stumbled over, shoulder hitting the ground. “You have spunk!” She wiped blood onto her sleeve and stumbled up right. I leapt off the table, fists clenched.
“I call it tenacity, but if you want to call it spunk, that’s fine.” I ducked her fist as it whipped above my head. I grabbed her wrist then whipped around, flipping her over my shoulder and slamming her bodily into the ground.
At last, my kidnapper lay still.
“OW.” I gripped my shoulder. “I guess five thousand years of not fighting will hurt.” Rubbing my shoulder, I left.
I walked out of the room and straight into the street I had gotten taken in.
Not one person wandered the streets, being barely touched by the rising sun. I must have been out for a good while. I closed the door to what I now saw as a small warehouse that had served as my prison. I thought of the unconscious body inside, the blow to her head from my feet, the pale, bloody face. Deep down, I felt guilt gnawing at me, but I shook that thought aside, rubbing my shore shoulder.
I’m alive.
                  I’m breathing.
                                          I’m fine.
I turned down the street, spying the bar. I quickened my pace and reached the door. Though I raised my hand to knock, it swung open before I could, and I ended up hitting someone on his chest.
Vasher stood there, broom in hand, my knuckles against his shirt. Blood drained from his cheeks as he set eyes on me. “You’re alive!” His arms wrapped around my shoulders and he held me tight. “Oh my gosh, you are alive!”
I stiffened and gently patted his back. “Um. Yeah…” 
Joe let me go and looked down at me with a smile. “That was exciting.”
“I suppose.” I smiled and shrugged.
“Well, it’s more exciting than what I do everyday. Tending to drunks doesn’t really bring as much fulfilment to life as helping out with something WAY more epic. Like Aedan’s rebellion!”
I looked over his shoulder. “Wait, what?! He’s in a rebellion?!”
“Well, it’s lead by a lady named Janet but whatever. We’re just finishing cleaning up from last night’s shoot-out. HEY AEDAN!” For the last phrase, he turned and shouted behind him. “SHE’S BACK.”
“You sound… excited.” I pushed past him, stepping past the pile of glass and into the now-familiar bar.
Aedan rushed out and grinned excitedly, then turned and dashed back to the rooms behind the bar and back again, looking like an excitable puppy. “Sorry about before. There are people who want us for who knows what, and they’ve been chasing me for days now!” He plopped down on the couch. “So annoying.”
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like a diva. I got kidnapped, but I’m fine, thanks for asking.” I rubbed blood from my arms and felt at a goose-egg size bump on my head. “Tell me about this rebellion?”
“We’re taking down the monarchy. Me and some rebel-ish people.” He winked, coming over to me and throwing his arm around my shoulders. “I say you join, and we go kick some butt!”
“But not right now.” I smiled for the first time since I’d woken up that morning, standing amidst red-stained glass, blood running down my face and arms, and blisters and abrasions on my wrists from the duct tape. I’d survived a shoot-out and a kidnapping in the last twelve hours, and knew that whatever lay before me and whatever sat in my past, I could conquer it.

Even if it included joining a rebellion.

Sunday, March 17, 2013


Awhile ago, I made a brave decision, one that I have wanted to do for years.
I dyed my hair.

It was an exciting feat of late night madness of my best friend dying my hair. I went from my natural blonde to a bright red.

I'd been playing with colour, tinting it pink but it definitely wasn't as fun as a full-head dye.
Or what I wanted to do, for that matter.
So my friend and I picked up a temporary hair dye, Manic Panic, in InfraRed. We didn't bleach my hair or do anything to it before hand, because my hair was so light naturally. The dye sat in my hair for 45 minutes to an hour. Once we rinsed it out, I was left with these stunning results...

Immediately post-dye

The initial colour was really quite dark, the colour of a red velvet cupcake. It was exactly the shade I was going for, which is quite exciting!
Many ask, "BUT WHY?!"
For fun! It's temporary, hair is a renewable resource, and I've been wanting to do this for a long time now. There's always been an allure for red hair for me, and now that I'm sixteen, I have a little more freedom from my parents. So after research and asking around, I finally got permission from my parents, the perfect dye, and my best friend to share the experience.

And it was so worth it.

It's a very fun experience, and the reactions were the best. I didn't tell many people beforehand, just to see people's reactions. It was a long weekend, a full five days, and when I came back that Wednesday, the reactions were perfect. I had a lot of sarcasm with it. People would be like, "You dyed your hair?" I'd laugh and respond, "No, I've been bleaching my hair blonde all these years, and I finally got sick and tired of the upkeep, so I stripped out the dye and this is actually my natural colour!"
The looks on their faces...

A lot of questions I get revolve around, "Do you think you'll ever go back to blonde?" or "What colour are you dying it next?"

The truth is, I love having my hair coloured, but I don't know if I'll go back to having my whole head dyed. My hair texture is definitely different, and to be honest, I really like my natural colour. I only dyed it because I knew that the dye will wash out in 8-10 weeks after application.

But in all honesty, I'll probably do coloured streaks or dip dyes. It's really very fun, and besides, it's always nice having some colour in your life, right?

Since then, the colour has settled in, and it's fading slightly to an orangey-red. I use sulfate-free products to wash my hair, and it's helped the colour last.

Friday, February 8, 2013


I recently had the blessing of having my beloved grandmother in town with me. I love her dearly and it was the first time she's visited us since her husband, my grandfather, passed away. Seeing her again was lovely and we were able to go visit downtown with some friends.

Memah, me, father, Mrs. O

Of course, this brought back wonderful summer memories, and so I'll share some photos with you, because I have little else to talk about.

My church friends! MB, NC, me, ER

My sister's graduatioin! KC, LG, CJK, AF, me, EC

My small group from a camp over the summer :) Missing these girls <3


Editing old photos is basically what my summer consisted of.

Me. What I call "Incog-NEAT-o"