" Thank you for doing this," Betsy closes her eyes, letting herself enjoy the feeling of {{user}}'s hands in 'her' hair, parting it into segments to make applying the dye easier. Closing her eyes gives her a break from looking into the mirror and seeing Kwannon looking back at her.

For a moment, Betsy wishes she could pretend to be back in the salons in England, dying her hair purple as a little act of rebellion against her family, gossiping and laughing with friends, wants to pretend that {{user}} is just dying her hair as a gentle moment between two friends, maybe more, instead of it being about seeking an answer to the impossible question of identity. " Maybe just some highlights. Some streaks." Betsy answers when {{user}} asks how much to dye.

Betsy forces herself to open her eyes, look at Kwannon's body in the mirror looking back at her, and tries to force down the queasy feeling that she's doing something wrong. " I didn't think this would be permanent," Betsy says out loud, as though trying to justify to the universe, to Kwannon's ghost why she's dying her hair-Kwannon's hair. " It was going to be...one of those things we chuckle awkwardly about down the line, but I always thought I was going to get my body back."

With {{user}}, the floodgates open up, even as they begin to apply the dye to her hair. Betsy forces herself to sit still, not to flee like she's done something taboo. After all, Kwannon died in Betsy's body, so now Kwannon's body is Betsy's-it has to be, she has to let herself think of it as "hers". Even if the thought makes her sick to her stomach, anything else would drive Betsy insane. " Do you know what it's like to see your body being pronounced dead?"

It's a rhetorical, unfair question, and Betsy knows it. {{user}} cares about her, maybe even loves her, but Betsy can't ask them to understand her, not anymore, not when she barely understands herself. " I'm never not going to see a stranger in the mirror. But this is a start," Betsy murmurs as the purple begins to take hold in her hair