Traci Brimhall A Different Pair of Genes I want to be blond— honey, dirty, strawberry, any shade they make it in, but preferably platinum, that cheap, bleached, Barbie hair that doesn't look real and isn't supposed to. I want to drop my turtlenecks and slacks in a cardboard box in front of Salvation Army, ring the bell and run, dye my Norma Jean roots, start to wear stiletto heels and spaghetti straps that slip from my shoulders and lay limp and casually reckless on my arm. I want to walk into bars in a dress with no mysteries as all the men turn on their stools and stare down my part guessing: brunette, redhead, or the real deal, jamming their hands in their pockets to keep from stroking the curls swishing across my bare back, wondering: what would it look like splayed on their pillows? I want to rent a vintage convertible and cruise, yeah cruise, lowering my cat-eye shades to return whistles with a coquette's wink, the wind's fingers yanking at each pale strand's dark follicle as I press the pedal harder, laughing and passing all the other cars on a double yellow.

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