She is running late.
I can tell because the petals are already gone — shed somewhere on the way out the door, like an outfit she abandoned halfway through getting dressed. What's left is the version she pulled together at the last minute: spine straight, chin up, every little scale aligned, the studded dark collar at her base looking like the world's smallest bandolier. She has put herself together with impressive speed. She is representing. She has been assigned a post and she intends to hold it, even though she is definitely not on time.
The only problem is her hair.
Right on top of that perfectly disciplined little bud is a burst of curly, bright, unruly green hair, sticking up in every direction at once. Wild. Springy. Absolutely refusing to fall in line with the rest of the operation. This is the hair of a woman who did not have time for the mirror this morning. This is the hair of someone who grabbed her keys, said a small prayer, and ran.
I love her for it. The uniform is immaculate. The posture is unimpeachable. But the hair gives the whole thing away — she is late, she knows she's late, and she's showing up anyway. Fully committed. Slightly disheveled. Present.
Focus stacking picked up every ridge, every fuzz, every little curl. All the textures the eye normally glosses over are right there, showing off. Nothing about her is hiding.
She is at attention. She is at ease. She is completely out of time.
I get it, girl. Same.