I think I will start by describing someone to you and see whether or not you find any significance to this person. I sit here, under the baby oak trees, the wind ruffling my lanky hair. (You’re probably wondering why I am describing the setting. Well, it is just that Master Jeffries, my English teacher who may well be reading this right now and swearing to high heaven, has always told me to add in a setting to accompany my description, as it adds orientation to the piece of writing, and I aim to have a very orientated piece of writing.)
As I watch the gulls squeal high above me, I see her walking past.
She carries a brown leather satchel that is slightly faded, and her long golden braids are decked as though for conquest, with coloured strings of exotic varieties of colour, ranging from the deepest opal to the strongest indigo, all weaved intricately through those long plats as they swing down her back and over her shoulders. A few wisps of escaped hair frame her heart-shaped face, where the brightest pair of striking eyes scan the path before her, and its borders, as she carries gracefully on. Her shoes, I notice, are of a turquoise tint, braided at those edges which touch the skin of her foot with exotic-looking beads. She looks like nobody I have ever seen, and yet I set eyes on her everyday at this very spot. You might think that it is a very cheesy thing for me to say, that I have never seen anything like her, because, logically, I have. Since I told you I set eyes on her every day, and have done for the past two years. It’s like I am contradicting myself, if you look at it in a logical manner. However, that is not so. I will deign to explain.
You see, everyday she looks entirely different. Some days, she will come with hair so short she could pass for a boy, if it weren’t for her pretty heart-shaped face. Other days she would come with skin so dark she could pass for a person from Africa or Australia. Some days her nose would be hooked, other days it would be snubbed, but mostly it would be straight and true, and I knew that was her original nose. I lived for the days when she was an original, with her natural colour skin, which was peachy beige, with a tint of rose, and her natural colour hair, which was a sandy colour which glinted like finely spun gold in the sunlight. How, you ask, do I know it is the same person if she appears completely different each day? The answer is actually surprisingly simple.
You can always recognise someone if you notice them enough, if you watch them every day. You recognise the way they take their steps, their little mannerisms and habits, the way they pass, glance at things, the inclinations of their heads and their gait. Most of all, though, it is their eyes. You can always tell someone by their eyes; they are windows into your being, existence, soul. I know the previous sentence might be a cliché, but some cliché’s are worth repeating, such truth do they hold. Her glittering, vivid, bright greeny-grey eyes are unmistakable, and she can never change them. I suppose, if you had a technical mind and really considered it, she might be able to change the colour of her eyes, by wearing contact lenses or something of the sort, or get them dyed (I heard the other day that that was possible to do), but she never did. I’m not sure why, but I cannot say it disappointed me in the least that she did not. It made me appreciate this strangeness even more, and observe it with much more care and attention, wondering at the oddity and sometimes utter impossibility of her daily change in appearance. Yes, impossible.
How did one go about changing their skin colour in such a way? How did they manage to pass the same spot, each 24-hour interval, with differing lengths of hair, differing colours and differing textures? How did they manage to go from a shorn-off look to long flowing locks the very next day? This, dear reader, is what I would consider and mull over daily, waiting for this apparition of absolute brilliance to pass by me each day, as I sat on my insignificant bench. She passed by me each day, but she never seemed to notice me or acknowledge my presence. Sometimes her startling gaze would pass over me, vague and unseeing. Blank, glassy. I knew I could never mean anything to that. Nor did I wish to mean anything to that. I, and forgive me, although I haven’t got the faintest clue why I am asking for this forgiveness, saw her as food for thought. I wondered why one human wanted to look different every single day, what ulterior motive that human might have. I wondered whether that human enjoyed what appeared to be a such tedious task, what must be going on in that human’s head, what must that human’s daily life consist of.
I present to you, dear reader, the Phenomenal Girl.
The above is as narrated by Twig Blackadder.