I’m used to people telling me what I can’t do, but I usually find a way to do it anyway.

“Wash that fruit punch out of your hair, missy,” my mom would say. Mom never liked my style choices. My strawberry blonde hair took color perfectly, so how could I resist? They used to keep the Kool-Aid in the cabinet above the fridge, but I had expertly devised a system of stacking that could get me up there, then be torn down before Mom came down the stairs. I even remember the order of it: Footstool on bottom for strong support, large laundry hamper, with the smaller laundry hamper upside down inside it. That gave me a broader surface area that was still relatively sturdy. Then at the counter level, I’d pull the breadbox into play, followed by the crockpot, and that was that.

The trick was to complete my dye job as close as possible to departure time. If I did it correctly, Mom would see it, but there was nothing she could do. Being late for school was more her problem than mine; I never much liked the joint anyway. She would get so mad that her face would change to as many different colors as the Kool-Aid I used to dye my hair. Still, some part of her must have been okay with it, because they always kept that cabinet stocked with Kool-Aid.

I remember the day I found my best color up there. At first I was alarmed to see that the only choice was blue raspberry. Usually I favored the reds, pinks and purples. Blue was alright for drinking, but I’d never tried it on my head. I could hear mom moving around frantically upstairs, getting ready for another hectic day at work, so I had to move quickly. I gathered my standard supplies: The wide bowl from pantry and the big plastic spoon. Then I slipped into the quiet and dark garage to the punch-stained paint sink where I worked my magic.

Not ten minutes later I crept back into the kitchen from the garage and went straight for the bathroom to check out my new look. I was nervous. I mean, I was a seasoned Kool-Aid self stylist, but blue? The moment I saw that glorious royal sheen in my reflection, tears of joy welled up in my eyes. I had found the look.

I waited confidently in the kitchen, listening to mom’s final upstairs preparations (shoes on, purse jingling), and trying to guess the color of anger that would appear on her face when she saw me. Finally she came down the stairs, in as much of a hurry as any other day. She looked at me and stopped dead in her tracks at the foot of the stairs. The tension kept building, and I started to worry that I had taken it too far this time.

After a good long pause, her face brightened and she burst into laughter. “Looking good, kiddo.”

My hair’s been blue ever since.