This is such a beautiful story
At 18, living alone in a new city, there was a day I decided to wear only red.
The color would be my brand, my hallmark, my calling card. In a strange new place, where I was as of yet anonymous, I could choose to become anyone, anything. I chose red.
I visited dozens of thrift stores in downtown Portland, and headed straight to the ever-present swath of scarlet shirts, buying three or four at a time.
I threw out the rest of my wardrobe, the mosses, the browns, the khakis, muted fat girl camouflage, and transformed myself over the course of a few months into a fierce woman of fire. The rich, rebellious hue inspired further wardrobe changes I had never considered. I bought tiny little black skirts to wear with all those vivid blouses. I splurged on stripper shoes, thigh-high, lace-up cherry colored boots with four inch heels, elevating…
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