It was a pretty average-sized apartment, somewhere around eight hundred and fifty feet with only one bedroom, which allowed more of the square footage to go to the common area.

I took full advantage of it, putting not only a charcoal gray sectional in the living room, but a round cozy reading chair I’d seen going viral online and decided I had to have all to myself. Most of the time, I found myself falling asleep in it now. It was the messiest area in my house, sporting several pillows for strategic propping during long reading sessions, two soft blankets, a stack of books, and a small caddy that had all the things I needed to annotate book club books: sticky notes in pastel colors, pens, highlighters, and bookmarks.

Behind the chair was a lamp that hung over. To the side of it, a table for drinks and snacks.

On the wall that the sectional faced was a built-in unit I’d painted black, stretching from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and only a small gap for a TV I rarely ever watched.

Sucking in a deep breath, I walked over to my least-used room: the kitchen. It served mostly as the place where my coffee maker lived. And my leftovers were stored.

I went to the island, grabbing the lighter, and igniting the wick on the strawberry sweet cream candle, inhaling a deep breath before making my way into the hall bathroom.

I’d done wrote a bit of unapproved remodeling—tearing out the old, cracked little white square tiles and replacing them with big square slate tiles instead, walls and bath niche and all. The vanity was also new and floating with light under it so I could stumble in half-asleep and not have to turn on the big light.

Standing in front of the mirror, I pulled out the dye kit, set all the steps up, then reached to pull off my shirt.

“Alright, here goes nothing.”

I was no stranger to dyeing my own hair. I maintained my signature blue color without the assistance of a salon.

What can I say? Save for the random night when I chose to bring a man to bed, I didn’t like having people touch me.

Besides, I was a former foster, then street, kid. If I could save money, I usually chose to. And a ten-dollar box of dye seemed a lot smarter option than three hundred bucks at a salon.

I knew that the me I was turning myself into as I shook the bottle of thick brown liquid and streaked it through my hair was someone who wouldn’t have the same money wounds as I did. I’d have to make sure I didn’t balk at prices or suggest cheaper options.

I mean, it wasn’t even going to be my money anyway.