The reflection in the mirror showed me a woman in full metamorphosis. The latex gloves, stained a fiery red, gripped the brush, while unruly locks were tamed and sprinkled with color. A silent alchemy was taking place in the bathroom at home, transforming my usual brown into an explosion of copper.
Every brushstroke was an act of courage, a step towards a new me. I felt the tingle of color on my scalp, a tingling that awakened not only my hair, but also something inside me. The air was thick with the pungent smell of dye, a scent I associated with change and reinvention.
Looking at ...

The reflection in the mirror showed me a woman in full metamorphosis. The latex gloves, stained a fiery red, gripped the brush, while unruly locks were tamed and sprinkled with color. A silent alchemy was taking place in the bathroom at home, transforming my usual brown into an explosion of copper.
Every brushstroke was an act of courage, a step towards a new me. I felt the tingle of color on my scalp, a tingling that awakened not only my hair, but also something inside me. The air was thick with the pungent smell of dye, a scent I associated with change and reinvention.
Looking at my reflection, I saw a woman who dared, who was not afraid to stand out. The bright red was a symbol of passion, of energy, of a vitality that perhaps I had held back too much. It was a silent cry, an affirmation of self that went beyond words.
As I waited for the dye to take effect, I felt like a work of art in progress. I was eager to see the final result, but also grateful for this moment of intimacy with myself. The red dye was not just a cosmetic change, it was a ritual of transformation, a way to celebrate my strength and my uniqueness.

Il riflesso nello specchio mi mostrava una donna in piena metamorfosi. I guanti di lattice, macchiati di un rosso fuoco, stringevano il pennello, mentre ciocche ribelli venivano domate e cosparse di colore. Un'alchimia silenziosa stava avvenendo nel bagno di casa, trasformando il mio solito castano in un'esplosione di rame.
Ogni pennellata era un atto di coraggio, un passo verso un nuovo me. Sentivo il pizzicore del colore sul cuoio capelluto, un formicolio che risvegliava non solo i miei capelli, ma anche qualcosa dentro di me. L'aria era densa dell'odore pungente della tinta, un profumo che associavo al cambiamento e alla reinvenzione.
Guardando la mia immagine riflessa, vedevo una donna che osava, che non aveva paura di distinguersi. Il rosso acceso era un simbolo di passione, di energia, di una vitalità che forse avevo tenuto troppo a freno. Era un grido silenzioso, un'affermazione di sé che andava oltre le parole.
Mentre aspettavo che la tinta facesse effetto, mi sentivo come un'opera d'arte in divenire. Ero impaziente di vedere il risultato finale, ma anche grata per questo momento di intimità con me stessa. La tinta rossa non era solo un cambiamento estetico, era un rituale di trasformazione, un modo per celebrare la mia forza e la mia unicità.