Don't do it.
For the love of God, please stop.
I know it feels good. I know they look odd.
But that pleasure is only temporary, love.
As soon as you see the damage, you'll come down off your buzz.
You were doing so well, my dear.
I think I know what happened to you.
You waited too long, little one.
All that progress you made? Gone.
Now you're embarrassed. Scared, even.
Of what they'll say again, what they'll think.
You're only trying to help yourself.
I'll have you know, there's no shame in a little ink.
But still you pull. And pull and pull and pull.
You pick and scratch until you bleed.
This isn't how you want to live, sweetheart.
This doesn't have to be your life.
Go on. Just stop.
See? Not that simple, right?
So dye it. Cut it. Hell, shave it all off.
After all, it is yours.
I guess you could say it's trichy.
More likely, gross. Or shameful.
Contrary to what some may think, it's only the aftermath that's painful.
