Show, Don’t Tell

My friend’s name is Laura, but don’t ever call her that. If you are introduced to her she’ll say, “Nice to meet you. My name is Scarlett-Begonia.”

The name was concocted in order to express her-self.
She hates flowers, which means the name is a complete failure.
Her hair is a chestnut mane with streaks of pink that cascade from her scalp like a bleeding Valentine.
The pink “expresses” her sympathy for the AIDS epidemic in Africa.

Scarlett-Begonia, the girl who hates flowers, she wears cotton skirts because she likes the way the breeze kisses her legs. She refuses to wear shoes indoors.

Her nose is pierced with a cubic zirconium stud.
She has a tattoo of a dove on her forearm.
If you ask her she’ll say it’s a way to express herself.

Scarlett-Begonia relishes the lingering glances she so often receives from passersby.

“They were looking at my hair,” she’ll say. “It’s funny, how people will look down on you for expressing yourself.”

People look at Scarlett-Begonia and say she’s weird.

She especially loves when they say “weird.”

People’s first impression is that she’s a drug addict.

Hippy.

Anarchist.

Punk.

Vegan.

Gypsy.

When I ask Scarlett-Begonia what she’s doing tonight she says, “Just going to chill out.” When she’s not “chilling out,” she watches independent movies at the university cinema or writes poetry about the Holocaust. Or has a few martinis at a bar with me.

Scarlett-Begonia once dyed her hair black to express her apathy toward death. Two months later she shaved every raven lock from her head because she was tired of conforming to her own expectations.

That was the weirdest thing she has ever done.