I slowly pull the blade across my face and the infant Red Thunder screams.
It's getting to be winter again, and he wants out.
Thick, curly, burgundy.
With the blue eyes and brown hair the effect is disconcerting.
Like a mongrel dog with two-colored eyes.
Men fear it. (You can't trust a man with such confused genetics. He could be hiding anything in there, a switchblade, a tazer, or simply a bottle of scotch)
The women adore it. (For many of the same reasons)
But I fear the New Regime at work, and doubt Red Thunder would pass a background check.
So I keep him hidden, my love and expression taking a backseat to eating.
Just another victim of the Oppressive Culture.
Maybe I should picket.